


Brave New World

by amireal



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Supernatural Elements, fix-it-ish, oh god someone should probably have stopped me, universe hopping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:41:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amireal/pseuds/amireal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson has never been extraordinary, just very good at his job. Then Loki happened and he must learn to live his life on a different path and in a different world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, uh. This is a little experimental? Not in a story telling fashion, no weird formatting or timeline jumps. Mostly in the presentation. I apologize in advance for this, because it's kind of selfish, but I need some fannish interaction and the usual suspects are places I'm not ready to interact with yet. Thus, the story might end up a tiny bit sloppy before the end, because I'm trying something new. Sorry about that.

The first seconds are terror and madness. It’s worse than the last seconds, which are pain and tearing and a scream that rattles his ears. No, when he lands it’s worse, because he is alone and fragile and without the comforting sense of family teasing at his edges. The floor is cold and it vibrates in an unfamiliar way, there’s the tang of blood long dried and dead in the air, scraping at the back of his throat. There are mechanics with their sour oils coating his nose and electricity with its burnt air tickling his lungs.

In seconds, Coulson goes to his knees, unable to take in all of the changes, all of the wrong at once. He ducks his nose into his collar, desperately trying to find a familiar scent to stabilize himself, but it’s too faint and everything in this new place is too loud. His long black duster is already soaking in the dust of this new and torturous world and his skin is already crawling with the new air. He can feel it in the very molecules he breathes, this is no longer home, merely a strange and distorted echo of what once was. 

His staff fell to the ground when he landed and it now sits beside his booted feet, deader than he’s ever felt it, the runes dark and silent, the core crystal cracked and broken. It hurts to look at, to experience on all the levels possible, even though it all seems muted and dull.

Coulson reaches to it, scared to let his gloved hands even curve around it’s familiar weight, it’s a dead limb through the animal skin on his fingers and though the gloves have always been protection, they should never be a blockade like they feel now. He rips off the one on the right with his teeth, not even able to hold back the worried whine that escapes his throat and he touches the wood again, waiting with trembling limbs for the staff to answer, to whisper or scream, for a small ripple in the unfamiliar stream he now finds himself in.

He’s inside the broken crystal before he can stop himself, he’s feeling the faults and cracks and looking for a single line of uninterrupted energy. The alarms wrench him out of his accidental trance and he can hear the boot steps long before they will arrive at the door and he has seconds to decide what to do next. He stands, dizzy with this world already, feeling near sided and off balance, he searches for anything that will tell him what to do next, even as he must ignore all of his instincts and stop reaching out for a pack that is no longer there.

The monitor he stumbles to has a familiar family crest, he stares at it and closes his eyes, nothing screams danger at him, just wrongness. So much wrongness. He cannot possibly do this alone, or even just without more information, so he lets himself do as he wanted from the start. Slide down the nearest wall and hug his knees to his chest, cradling his dead staff in his lap, he waits for judgment to come.

The boots, when they do arrive, only confirm Coulson’s worst feelings, this place is different, the guns are wrong and without runes, the uniforms are completely synthetic, no single blend animal fibers to be seen. Their ears are decorated with miniature boom mikes without the listening protection crystals. Still though, when they demand he face them, he looks up from his lap and they all freeze in a familiar diorama of fear and respect and then more fear. 

“Agent Coulson?” One of them asks, voice thick with fear. He can smell it in the air, acrid and strange. It’s not regular fear, but it’s filled with shock and surprise. Agent, he supposes, is a similar title to the one he actually holds.

He cannot think of a good reason not to confirm his identity, then again, he is having trouble thinking at all. “My name is Coulson, yes, but I suspect not the Coulson you know.”

The one in front turns and talks quietly and then gestures at the men surrounding him and they go quiet but alert, there are still guns aimed at him, but there’s a tension in the air that Coulson can feel. They’ve been told to turn to passive guarding only, hold but do not engage. This world’s Coulson must mean something.

The footsteps that approach now are heavy, they practically beat a rhythm onto the floor all on their own and the men in front of him also seem to sense the imminent arrival of the newcomer despite the obvious differences between the natural senses endowed upon these people and Coulson’s own world.

It’s Fury and all he wants to do is offer his belly in friendship, despite the discordant song his senses are singing. It’s Fury, but it’s not. The man that wears Fury’s face and more disturbingly, almost has his scent and heartbeat, stops dead when he gets to the front of the grouping security men.

“It had to be this level didn’t it?” Fury mutters. “The problem with you being here, against that wall, is that now I have to worry if someone is trying to tug on my nonexistent heart strings.”

Coulson laughs, because that’s all he can do, it sounds like him, so much like him. “Then I wouldn’t worry, whatever mythical evil tried that is obviously too stupid to realize you don’t have heartstrings,” he says automatically, his instincts keep overriding his brain, “I freely admit, I chose this wall because it was close by.”

“I’m sure he did too,” Fury says, “it’s hard to be choosy after you’re stabbed through the heart.”

The scent in the back of his throat turns and he realizes why it took so long to recognize, not only is it his own scent shifted into this universe, but it’s his own scent full of pride and pain and death. His brain wouldn’t let him figure it out on its own. “I assure you sir, my being here is as much a surprise to me as it is you.”

They stare at each other and Coulson takes what’s left of his concentration, shoves the aching hole tugging at his soul into a dark corner and he focuses entirely on the copy of the Fury he knows standing in front of him. He sinks into his senses, all six of them, and he tries to take Fury apart and then put him back together again. There is fear and distrust and anger and pain but there is also, at the core, a small ember of goodness. A spark of familiar, bone achingly, deeply familiar, goodness.

“Sir,” Coulson breathes out, “I’m sorry if this is painful for you, but I’m pretty sure I was just shoved through a portal into a parallel universe.”

Fury’s head drops and he curses, loudly. “Fucking portals.”

They commiserate in silence for long seconds until Fury’s gaze sharpens on him.

“Please don’t take it from me,” Coulson almost begs as Fury’s eyes land on the staff in his lap, the dead limb really, “it’s useless at the moment and the only thing I have left.” That’s not precisely true, he is still wearing his rings, the leather cuff and tattoos. It’s just that the staff is important to him and the idea of letting it go is more painful than continuing to clutch at it and feel nothing.

Fury looks torn, actually looks it, which would be unusual even in his own world and he suspects it might be doubly so in this one. “We can scan it?”

Phil sighs. “You’ll probably find traces of radiation and a broken sound above hearing range, but I assure you, I swear on my honor that it’s basically a broken and shattered piece of what it once was.”

Fury steps closer and then bends at the knees so that their eyes are level with each other and he stares closely at Coulson, to the point of deep discomfort, where he comes from this is just on the verge of breaking all possible acceptable social and familial protocol, but he endures because this is important. So Coulson lets it go, all of the pain and anguish and terror, he lets it float to his eyes, his face, his body. He submits to the the stare in as many ways possible until finally Fury relents and nods. “I’ll be the first one to shoot you if you’ve lied to me.”

“Fair enough,” Coulson whispers, suddenly so very tired. He stares in shock at the hand Fury is offering him but he takes it anyway and finds himself hauled into a standing position too fast. He stumbles back into the wall and closes his eyes. “Sorry, it was a rough landing.”

“Are you injured?” Fury’s question is brisk, but Coulson can sense the worry under it.

Coulson takes two long breaths and shakes his head. “Not in any way that you could treat or that needs immediate attention. This world is different, that’s all.” He finds the irony of using his dead staff as a mere walking stick sickening, but at least it is still somehow useful, it keeps him from tripping over his own leaden feet.

The hallways they walk are empty, probably cleared just for them, that’s probably why he hears it so easily, the rapid fluttering of a heart then a scent full of fear and sadness and finally screaming. “Let me see him,” the voice in the distance yells, frantic, I just need to see him!”

Coulson walks on, the people who surround him are not ready for who he is, they are like the scientist extremists from his world, so long to believe, so hard to convince, he will have to go slow and stopping in the middle of their pax to explain to them he is not quite the human they know of without careful consideration of his words and a slow exchange of information will likely just get him shot and he’s not sure he could heal a paper-cut at the moment, let alone a gun shot.

So he lets the voice come.

Fury twitches when the radio in his ear informs him of the scuffle, but he just sighs and mutters, “let him through.”

The sounds of bodies disengaging hits his ears first, then boot steps, heavy with running and fatigue and then— he gasps. Clint, oh Clint, alive and whole. Not taken by that monster and turned into something terrible. He is human, oh so human and the heartbeat immediately imprints on Coulson’s brain, he could not stop it even if he tried and oh how he did not want to try.

“Clint,” he chokes out, hand tightening on his staff painfully.

“Coulson?” Clint looks wrecked and he stumbles reaching out to the nearest wall to hold him up. “Is that really you?”

“That,” Fury interjects between them with perfect timing, “is what we plan on finding out, but Agent Barton,” he says, turning to look at Clint fully, “no matter what we find, he isn’t the Coulson from our world.” There is a hint of sorrow in his voice as he says it.

Clint looks utterly betrayed for a long moment before shaking it off and turning to look directly at Coulson again. “Another world?”

Phil shrugs. “Portals,” he says because some annoying things are apparently universal.

Clint barks a laugh out and then shakes his head. “Fucking portals.”

Clint joins their little procession and has a silent conversation with Fury at the door of their final destination, he wins, but it’s obvious only just and at Fury’s whim only. He opens the door for Coulson and gestures for him to precede him inside.

The room is not what Coulson expects from an interrogation, it is littered with couches and a table filled with comforting items. The electric kettle draws his attention and he searches through the available teas. They are all bagged, but the packaging appears to hold the teabags completely sealed and air tight, he tears open a chamomile packet and finds it lined with a silver product, so at least they will be fresher than the stale packaged crap the paper wrapped bags must brew. His fingers walk down the line of flavors and pull jasmine and peppermint and chai and then dumps all three bags into a cup and waits 30 seconds for the water to boil, it’s a good kettle, and pours it, steaming, over the waiting bags.

Next to him, Clint makes a face at the combination of flavors, Coulson doesn’t blame him, it will likely taste terrible, but if the tea is at least of a middle grade leaf then the ingredients will do a decent job of soothing his jangled nerves and he will be able to stop actively having to hold them in for a while. It is a tiring process and he’s already exhausted to the bone.

His first sip is indeed terrible, but he makes himself down half the cup before finally choosing a square of sofa to settle on and tucking his staff down between his boots and the foot of his seat. He takes in the mirror on the opposite wall, squints to confirm his suspicions but lets it go. At least he’s comfortable. Clint curls up in the opposite corner, eyes bright and dark circles deep, he scans Coulson for long minutes before his shoulders sink in defeat.

“What’s your story then?”

Coulson sips on his disgusting brew and tries to find a good place to start. As usual, there isn’t. There never is. “Well,” he says carefully, “this particular adventure starts with Loki,” he sees Clint shudder and wonders how terribly he was touched by that wounded soul in this world, “he did not take kindly to my interruption of his plans.”

A sound, a terrible aching sound, is wrenched from Clint and a tear falls gently down his cheek. 

It’s the limit of self control Coulson has to not move when all he wants to do is gather Clint close and hold him tightly. “It was not the first time I had managed to tangle his unbelievably over complicated plans and I think I had started to get on his nerves, because he had a little something extra on him this time.”

Loki’s eyes had been bright and the customary smirk too wide, even as he took aim with his staff the pain came from behind him. “Begone,” Loki had whispered into his ear, “away from this world and my everlasting annoyance.”

“Was he trying to kill you?” Clint asks, tears still slowly dripping down with each slow blink, “Isn’t this a little overkill even for him?”

Coulson sighs and puts his cup down. “Oh I think he did kill me,” he says gently afraid of shattering Clint, “I just think he liked the idea of the slow and painful death this world would mete out.”

“No!” Clint is the one who leaps, which is a surprise for Coulson because he has been ruthlessly suppressing his own instincts, but he cannot possibly hold himself from wrapping his arms around Clint when Clint is clinging to him so desperately. “No, we’re not letting you die, I can’t do that again, I can’t.”

The imprinting is fast and completely uncontrolled, as soon as his nose is buried in Clint’s hair and his heart beats against Coulson’s chest, Clint is his and they both whimper with the completeness that follows. The warmth that eeks into his mind is a relief to a screaming agony he had been ignoring. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, clutching Clint tightly, “I’m sorry.” Clint clutches him right back.

Coulson wrenches his senses away from Clint just enough to listen, Fury sounds annoyed but he’s not about to have him dragged from the room and shot, so he lets his senses come back and marinate in Clint. What’s done is done and now it’ll only be a danger if he doesn’t finish it. “I need consent,” he whispers into Clint’s ear, “you surprised me and I wasn’t ready and it’s already too late but I need consent to finish it, I promise I would never hurt you, but if I can’t finish it we’ll both pine away into nothing.”

Clint swallows a noise and buries his face into the juncture between Coulson’s neck and shoulder and all that does is inflame his instincts even more. “Yes, of course, always,” Clint murmurs into his skin.

Coulson breaths a sigh of relief and then closes his eyes and sinks into what he, what they just did, letting the simple joy of no longer being alone overcome him. He gently takes Clint’s mental hand and pulls him into the whirlwind, coating their exposed nerves in a soothing balm of home. 

When it’s done, they tumble back into awareness together and Coulson’s time sense reasserts itself. It has been only minutes but what they have just experienced is the equivalent of hours, even years. They know each other now and there is no turning back. Clint understands what happened and he knows that Coulson hadn’t meant to trap him.

“It’s not a trap you stubborn bastard,” Clint’s rough voice tells him, his arms giving him one last squeeze before releasing him. Coulson lets go at the same time, but is gratified to see Clint do no more than lean against the back of the couch, remaining close and turned inward, facing Coulson.

Clint’s face looks relaxed for the first time since Coulson laid eyes on him. Something healed inside him when Coulson bound them together. That knowledge alone ensures it is something Coulson could never regret.

After, it’s easier to explain about his world, about a life filled with runes and crystals and technology that struggles to keep up with the things that people like himself are capable of. Though, in reality, Coulson was ordinary in a world of extraordinary, it’s actually difficult to place himself as special in this new world, because his skills are well earned and highly prized, but they are well within the realm of possibility in his home. In what was his home.

Here, in this place, the walls are too plain and so are the people. There are no decorative protections and he would wager if he were to remove his own shirt the designs on his skin would shock his spectators. Clint is the only exception, he is a bright beacon of possibility and strength, he could never be boring or plain even before they had met. Coulson explains some of what he is and some of what he could do, but he warns that this world is so different, much of what is and what he knows to be true is different enough that he cannot be sure of any reaction to any of his actions. 

“I’d like to go into the woods and experiment,” he tells the mirror, “it would be safest, but I don’t think you would let me out of your sight for that just quite yet.”

“Damn right,” Fury growls without activating the intercom.

Coulson, in an act of respect, acknowledges the words deliberately, revealing yet another of his skills. Fury’s quiet reply of “Knew it,” makes him chuckle.

Clint’s matching chuckle stops him cold and a panic sets in. No, he cannot have done that, it was not what he set out to do, even after the accidental imprint, he would not have taken more than he was given. He would not have done that without intent or at least a conversation. He closes his eyes and searches for what should be a thin thread but oh— no, please no, this is not what he left behind just an hour previous, this rope of pulsing energy, this permanent and soul deep tie. This marriage of two into one. He is worse than a rapist, he is a possessor, the most terrible of crimes.

“Hey!” Clint has taken his hand and is squeezing it with all his might, “No! Whatever you’re thinking no! I knew this would happen, I saw the ceremony while we exchanged life stories, I saw what happened to your sister, alone and cut off and I saw you, all of you and I said yes, I just didn’t know you hadn’t realized you’d asked the question.”

Coulson covers his eyes with his free hand and thinks. He realizes he stabilized far too quickly for the simple familial bond he thought they had forged. Clint had understood it too, what he would need to survive and he had, in a way that was Clint all the way through, making sure Coulson would get what he needs. He still feels abhorrently selfish.

“Then I’m selfish too,” Clint whispers, “I know you’re not him, but I also know you, you showed me this first and you’re who I’d choose given half the chance.”

“But he’s dead here,” Coulson says weakly.

“Fair enough, if he wasn’t dead, this would be more complicated.”

“Well,” Coulson sighs, testing their new bond carefully, feeling about its edges, “as long as we’re being fair.” Clint snickers and Coulson carefully leads them back to a conversation that Fury will at least find interesting. Eventually, his voice cannot be resuscitated by more tea, his stomach rumbles loudly and his words are swallowed in ever longer yawns. He has been in this world only hours, but he was exhausted before Loki pushed him and the bond with Clint took even more out of his limited reserves.

By this point, Fury has joined them in the room and is actively asking questions. The conversation is highly theoretical because as he explained early on, he cannot be sure of anything until he tries and no one is willing to let him try just yet.

“Have you had enough time to do your scans yet?” Coulson asks, yawning again, “Because I do really need to eat and sleep. Eventually.”

Fury smiles at him, a genuine one, “Well, you certainly act a lot like him, yes we’ve scanned you with everything we have.”

Coulson raises an inquiring eyebrow. “Was the gamma one really necessary? It almost gave me a headache.”

“You felt that?” Fury looks intrigued.

“Yes,” he says, but leaves it at that, if he were to show Fury is tattoos and start a conversation on the pigments, he might not be let out before he faints from hunger.

“Before we settle you in for the night, the doctors would like some blood samples.” Fury says it casually, but Coulson can see the curiosity itching to be soothed.

Coulson debates the next piece of information carefully before deciding that he needs all the good karma points he can gather for when Fury finds out what exactly happened with Clint. “Your needles, what are they made of?”

“Stainless steel.” Fury eyes him. “Why?”

“You will need both a large bore needle and something a little stronger than that to make it through to my veins and to stay intact long enough to collect your sample.” Coulson waits for for Fury’s counter offer because he knows there is one. This world may be different, but there are the same basic structures governing it. SHIELD is still about collecting the lonely souls, the ones too different to find homes elsewhere.

“We’ll break out the Captain America specials then,” Fury says looking satisfied with himself.

“Captain America?” Coulson asks, knowing he’s missing something important.

“Steve Rogers,” Clint clarifies, amusement coloring their bond.

“The Great Protector?” Coulson is shocked, Steve Rogers story seems too innately grounded in his own world to have had even something similar to have happened here. “How did he— no, never mind, I’m sure someone will tell me.” He pauses and frowns, “What about the Cold Knight?”

Clint shrugs, looking confused, “He wears a coat, like everyone else.”

“No,” Coulson struggles to explain, “The Cold Knight, with a K. His friend, Bucky.”

“Wait,” Fury says, all humor gone from his face, “The Winter Soldier is Bucky Barnes?” 

Coulson stops, something is wrong, something is wrong and it’s not just that the world is not the one he was born in. “What’s the date?” He is already suspicious that the answer will not be as he expects.

“January, 2013.” Clint tells him without hesitating.

Coulson shakes his head at their own stupidity, he’d been assuming the reason for Clint’s intense grief was because of the same conflict with Loki, the conflict which he had survived but has exiled him from home, but in this word instead of sending him away, Loki had simply killed him. That at most, the transition had taken days, maybe weeks, but no, this is much more than that. “When I left my world, it was March of 2016.” He looks to Clint, working out quickly to backtrack his own time line. What terrible atrocity had Loki accomplished that early in their history that could have killed him. 

They have established that the basic histories of their world match, as long as you can decode the vocabulary changes. It comes to him from Clint, the backlog of sepia toned images they exchanged but he has not had time to truly catalog. The very first encounter, no wait, technically the second, but Loki had only sent a missile that first time, he had not appeared himself. In his world, that first true appearance had been when he’d lost Clint to the Frost Vampires, their changes too fundamental for them to ever turn back, though that didn’t stop SHIELD from tying to find a way. Coulson still aches whenever he sees the vivid memory of his own staff blasting a blue tinted Clint across the room. Coulson had almost died that day, in his own world, but Loki Liesmith was only the next in a generation of tricksters, they had been well drilled in his tactics.

“We,” Fury says, “apparently have a lot more to talk about.”

Fury is right, there are years of terrible things they might avert, but Coulson still needs to stop for the day, it’s been too much already and he cannot possibly take any more. “Tomorrow,” he says wearily, “please.”

Fury gestures for the phlebotomist and Coulson holds his arm out for the blood draw with their apparently specialty needles and by the time he has filled 6 full vials, Fury has come to some sort of decision. “Take him to the tower,” he tells Clint.

Clint looks surprised, Coulson just wonders what sort of building in this world is named a tower. He suspects it will not be a prison because inside his mind Clint is quiet and happy, if a little nervous. “Sir?” Clint asks Fury.

“I’ve already ducked 3 calls from the Security Council,” Fury says, pacing, “I want him out of here in case someone gets delusions of grandeur. Again.” He stops in front of Clint and gives him a long look. “The others will protect him if they have to and I won’t have to actually order them to do it.”

Politics, apparently, are a universal constant. 

The great reveal and that’s saying something for his day, is when Clint leads them not to the outdoors, but to a decidedly deserted hanger bay full of air craft, some familiar, some terribly foreign. He leads Coulson up a ramp and seats him in the copilot’s chair. It is from there that Philip Coulson of the Shield Clan, Senior Wolf and Adviser and Lead tracker clutches at his still dead staff in awe and gets a glimpse of his new world, for the first time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a misplaced homonym in here somewhere, I forgot to note it during my first reread and have since lost where and what it was. Gold star if you find it, also apologies for it being there at all.

The world has more glass and less stone and is occasionally taller, but it’s not so different from up high. Clint calls ahead and gathers who he feels needs to be told. Coulson hopes it won’t be a long introduction, he is having trouble keeping his eyes open despite the renewed flush of adrenaline the flight provides.

They land on top of one of the tallest towers in sight, on a pad obviously designed just for this purpose. As they disembark Coulson can hear five unhappy heartbeats from behind a thick pane of glass. His tired eyes focus automatically and he can make out Steve Rogers jaw immediately, next to him is the Blackest Widow, her eyes are like ice when they lay upon him. Next he sees a scruffy man with glasses and hunched shoulders who is only vaguely familiar. Next to him is Tony Stark, known to Coulson as the most talented elemental in the world, from his mind the Stark of his world is able to work metal into miraculous wonders. It helps that he is also a genius and his metal creations can house electronic/crystal hybrid machines of amazing talents. Also occasionally, he is a singular pain in Coulson’s ass.

Then he sees Thor. Coulson thinks it is his clothing that made him blend in before, the same apparent casual style that Clint is wearing, because he is as always, statuesque and stately and more knowing than many give him credit for. Mjolnir is already in his hand and he has sounded the alarm before running into the open.

“Who are you, foul creature?” Thor booms, running to them at full tilt.

Coulson, too tired to fight his own hind brain, does the only thing he can, he grabs Clint and pivots on his heel, shielding him from the blow. With luck, his coat and tattoos will mitigate enough of the damage that, with enough time and care, he will be able to heal. When the blow never comes, he shifts his head enough to peek behind him only to find Thor stopped dead in his tracks, looking puzzled.

The buzz in his ears is Clint, talking, yelling really. 

“Thor, no! He’s a victim of your brother’s addiction to portals, not our enemy!” Clint turns in his arms and is now holding Coulson just as protectively as he is clutching at Clint.

“Brother?” Coulson blinks, finally letting his body relax. “That has to be a mythical tragedy in the making.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” a voice calls to them, “let’s bring this party inside, huh?”

Coulson, happy to be one step closer to a bed, lifts his foot, but his knees buckle, he is so tired that his staff falls numbly from his hands as his brain tries to get his limbs to work correctly. He struggles for a brief moment, but he is painfully useless, he’s afraid to draw on any of his battle tricks, the desperate measures of a nearly done man and his staff, were it still in his hand would be no more than a crutch. The idea is still blasphemous to his own mind. Thankfully, Clint is already shoving a shoulder into his armpit, keeping him upright be sheer presence, physical and mental, alone.

Someone grabs his other side and he is moving. “Staff,” Coulson slurs, he cannot let it disappear. 

“Thor has it,” Clint says, “come on, you need rest.”

He is guided indoors and then into an elevator and down a short corridor, the stumbling eventually ends at a bed. Clint manipulates him so that his floor length jacket comes off and then guides him down to the softly covered mattress . Having been part of more than one weary undressing for over exertion, Coulson does his best to remain upright but limber while they remove his boots and socks. He tries to manage the small black buttons of his dark shirt, but soon Clint is batting him away in favor of his own quicksilver hands.

When the shirt parts there’s a gasp, no, more than one, but the undressing only pauses for a brief time. There’s a vague back and forth about his jewelry but the buzzing he associates with Clint’s voice says to leave them. Coulson nods in agreement and thanks.

“I’ve got it from here, Steve,” is said over his head and the second person slips away. Clint gently cajoles him into laying down and then deftly unbuttons his leather pants and tugs them away with surprising efficiency. Leather can be tough to manipulate on and off of dead weight, of which he most definitely is at this point. “You need sleep pants or are your boxers okay?”

Coulson blinks a lot, trying to understand the question.

“Yeah,” Clint says, lifting a soft blanket over him, “I think you’re good the way you are.”

He’s already mostly asleep when Clint’s soft presence starts to wander away. “Clint?” he slurs, his mouth barely cooperating, “dun go.”

The softness comes closer and then strokes his head, “Just grabbing supplies, I promise to come right back.”

Coulson relaxes, the bond thrums with gentleness and absolutely no deceit, he drifts off easily after that, finally latching onto a small bit of peace as he goes. An instant of blissful darkness later there’s a delicious scent hovering under his nose and he’s already licking his lips in hunger as his eyes open blearily.

“Come on,” Clint says quietly, “you need to eat and then you can go back to sleep.”

Warm and spicy meat surrounded by fresh bread is pressed against his lips, Coulson opens his mouth automatically and bites down on the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten. That alone signals that he needs to finish his meal, things are only that delicious when one is desperately hungry. He sits up and digs into the food, a few bites in and Clint pushes a water bottle under his nose, he drinks greedily. As the food and water slowly disappears Coulson’s head starts to focus.

“You’ve only been down about an hour,” Clint switches out the empty bottle in his hands for a fresh one, “just long enough for the food to get here.”

That explains why his body feels so strange and why the world is only focusing in small, three foot patches at a time. He stuffs the last bite into his mouth and relaxes back against the headboard to finish chewing.

“Another?” Clint asks holding an aromatic bag up.

Coulson shakes his head, “I’m too tired to be that hungry, later.”

“You should sleep some more, the gang outside are waiting as patiently as they can get,which is to say Stark is about ten minutes from building a robot that will follow me around and poke me until I talk,” Clint squeezes his hand and envelopes him in the warmest mental hug he’s ever received.

“Someone’s been practicing,” Coulson murmurs, already yawning. He scrunches his way back to prone curling around the fluffiest but most supportive pillow he’s ever had the pleasure to use.

Clint follows him down and tucks himself under the covers with Coulson, he mirrors their positions and touches their foreheads, then he reaches out to tuck a hand over Coulson’s ribcage. Their breathing syncs without words needing to be exchanged.

“I thought they were waiting for you,” Coulson yawns again, feeling the blurring edges of their minds lapping together softly. 

“I told them I’d be about an hour,” Clint rubs his bare foot along Coulson’s leg before hooking under his knee and drawing him even closer. “There’s a good 45 minutes left.”

Coulson cannot stop the tiny rumble that echoes in his chest at the physical and emotional proximity Clint is giving him. Through his slowly relaxing mind, he wonders at how amazing Clint is, how he can know without barely any hints exactly what he needs right now.

Clint chuckles, low and fond, “Coulson, you’re purring,” his mental echo is full of mirth and wonder.

“M’not a cat,” he sulks, leaning in to nuzzle at Clint’s jaw because it’s so close and he needs to respond somehow, he needs to physically show Clint his wonderment and thanks at his gentle care. “Also, I think you can call me Phil.”

“I didn’t want to presume,” Clint nuzzles him back and then lays a careful and gentle kiss on his lips before replacing his mouth with the thumb from the hand that had been on Phil’s chest, the rest of the fingers cupping his cheek. Stroking slowly, Clint sings to him quietly, just a breathy humming in his ears and in his mind.

Stomach sated and instincts carefully tucked away behind his guard, Phil slowly drifts down to sleep, letting Clint take care of him, just for a little while longer.

He wakes, finally and for the last time, to a full bladder and a cuddly bedmate. These things, he has found, are usually incompatible. He has hazy memories of a half awake trip to the bathroom and another quickly eaten meal before gentle hands roll him back into bed where a body and mind curls around him and sooths him back to full sleep.

Phil takes in his situation before trying to move. At some point last night Clint obviously came to bed for the evening instead of just to check on him. He is shirtless and in comfortable pants and is wound around Phil tightly enough that he could easily imitate a kudzu vine if he needs to. He also looks too peaceful to disturb, so Phil does what he can, gently nudging him over just enough that he’ll either need to move or fall a few inches into another position.

Clint sniffs, makes a pained noise and instead curls tighter into Phil. He sighs and decides he’s going to have to do this the easy way after all. Phil works diligently for long minutes, stroking at bits of Clint with his hands and feet and occasionally his nose to bring him up to an outside awareness before giving a little mental knock knock on the bond.

“Hrmffmmphhllll.” Clint mumbles, but he is clearly waking up. His fingers and arms tighten and then slowly start to release Phil from their warm and inviting prison.

“Bathroom,” Phil whispers and is granted freedom at last. When business is taken care of, he makes a slow circuit of the room, the fact that he can do so in more than four paces is pretty impressive all on its own. He recognizes all of the facilities, even if some of them do seem overly complex. He does note a distinct lack of mineral salts and oils, healing salves and the like. From what he has seen, that is probably not simply a personal preference of Clint’s, and he is sure now that he’s been awake and aware for more than a handful of minutes at a time that it is Clint’s home he is in, but a general way this world operates. He makes a note to look up their first aid practices as soon as possible. 

He’s looking forward to trying that tub in the corner, it’s large enough to fit four grown men inside and all Phil wants is, eventually, room for two. He debates a shower but he can hear Clint moving restlessly in bed and his own stomach is rumbling again, this time ready to be completely filled now that he is no longer nauseated with fatigue.

When he joins Clint back in the bedroom he finds that some pants and a shirt have already been retrieved for him. “Thanks,” he smiles, he is by no means body shy, but he is not ready to have any sort of conversation about the marks he wears. After donning the clothes, they both shuffle out to a small kitchen that overlooks a comfortable living room. Phil raises an eyebrow. “Based on that bathroom, I thought the kitchen would be a similar altar to the luxury gods.”

Clint sticks his tongue out, but smiles shyly. “I don’t need that,” he says, opening the fridge and upon closer look Phil can see that despite the non grandiose outward appearance, the kitchen is still stocked with high end extras. “We got some input into what we would want and considering the huge kitchen in the common areas, this is plenty for me.”

That tidbit just makes Phil like him more. There is a pang, a small one, about the loss of his own Clint before they could get to this place, where they share small intimacies and easy details of their life. He pushes the pain away to examine later, when he is not starving.

“We ordered a lot of extra,” Clint says, popping delicious but cold looking hunks of meat into a table top oven, “and you don’t have to do that.”

Phil blinks in confusion, pausing his perusal of what he is sure is the coffee machine, the water reservoir is his only clue though because the rest of it looks too complicated.

“Hide your grief,” Clint explains, opening a cabinet next to the machine and showing Phil a series of small, 2 inch high containers with names on them.

He reads the names and realizes they are drink types and brands, he chooses one and slots it into the opening that Clint shows him and watches as Clint puts an empty mug under the spout, closes it all up and starts it all with the press of a large button. In seconds the machine is brewing and the cup begins to fill. “That is ingenious,” Phil says reverently before turning to fully face Clint, “thank you, I just don’t want you to feel—”

“I won’t.” 

Phil smiles, genuine and easy. “Can I assume by the lack of grumpy house mates camped out in your living room you managed to slip away long enough to satisfy their curiosity last night?”

“Mostly,” Clint grimaces, “but expect Tony to attempt a sneak attack before lunch, he has questions and a series of theories he wants to disprove.”

Phil’s stomach tightens and worries that this Stark will be like the terrorists in his world, so determined to disbelieve that he will do anything to make his story false. Clint draws him close before he can finish the thought, he holds Phil tightly, letting their lungs sync and tuning them to into a well oiled symphony of senses. 

“He’ll bitch about it,” Clint says into his ear, “but Tony will not deny actual proof when it’s right in front of his face.”

Phil spends time breathing in Clint’s scent, already his body has integrated most of Clint’s mark on the world, it must have happened while they were curled around each other, dead to the world. That doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy actively patterning it, inside his head a picture made of sound and smell is already started. It’s missing some senses, taste for example, but he knows those will come with time. He looks forward to the days he will spend learning Clint’s tread inside and out and the hours he will spend touching and mapping every dip and bump on Clint’s skin. Mostly, he aches to let them sink back into the bond and commune with each other, sparking their nervous systems gently together. The urges will fade to manageable levels in time, but Phil looks forward to enjoying them all first.

“Coffee’s getting cold,” Clint’s voice vibrates just right against Phil’s chest, “food needs another 10 minutes.”

He shuffles them closer and grabs his mug while hooking his chin over Clint’s shoulder so he can bring the mug to his lips without removing Clint from his person. Clint’s laughter makes the slight awkward nature of the movement worth it.

“Well then,” Clint shuffles them around and uses a single arm to do something behind Phil’s back. The sound of the machine brewing once more makes Phil laugh, apparently two can play at this game. Soon Clint has his own cup and they sip quietly, giggling every so often at the utter absurdity of themselves.

Eventually their cups are empty the the room smells of spicy meat. They reluctantly disengage and Phil watches Clint pop some bread into a microwave and pull out a tray of warm food from the oven. Phil watches the play of muscle across Clint’s broad back as he works quickly, efficiently and with a natural grace that is breath taking. 

Minutes later they are curled up next to each other on an extra deep couch, munching happily at their rewarmed food. Clint takes a few large bites and swallows it all down with several deep gulps of water. “So,” he says wiggling his toes under Phil’s thigh, “is now when we talk about why I can hear your heartbeat if I try hard enough?”

Phil accidentally inhales some water in surprise and gives Clint the narrow eye of future retribution. Clint just smirks. For that, Phil spends extra seconds coughing and wiping his mouth with his napkin. Clint waits patiently, amusement and curiosity his only accoutrements. It’s a difficult question to answer without any cultural context. “Do you have werewolf stories in this world?”

Clint looks only mildly alarmed but he nods. “Yeah, a lot really. As far as I know they’re not real here, so it’s all fairy tales and myths and every story has it a little different.”

“Tell me the basics,” Phil says, gently tugging on Clint’s feet, whose toes are still wiggling under his thigh. He moves his plate off to the side and takes Clint’s feet into his lap and slowly maps out all of the muscles and tendons, carefully pressing each one out, occasionally working out a knot. Clint relaxes and starts to explain.

“Okay,” Phil eventually says, wide eyed, “that’s not how it works at all.”

“Thank god,” Clint sighs, relaxing.

“Though, the Frost Vampires do tend to sparkle in the right light.”

Clint kicks him and laughs and Phil takes his turn to explain. In his world, there are the occasional feral monsters, but on the whole, being part of a Were clan is not about controlling instability but fostering the bonds of family and friendship. The Clan Shield was born originally out of a need for a place for lone Weres. The second Shadow War had devastated thousands and wiped away entire clans leaving, sometimes, only the occasional straggler. The SMR, Scientific Magical Reserves, gave way to a secondary organization, but it was too late for weakest. Only the strongest, the most talented, the most gifted, could live long without the pack bond. Without true family. So as the SMR morphed into The Clan Shield, it became obvious what the family business would end up becoming. 

That was decades ago, since then the clan has expanded and stratified. Peggy Carter, a British WereFox, had insisted on a civilian sister company, one that would truly offer their help to orphans, but beneath it lived the true Clan Shield, an organization hell bent on preventing a third shadow war.

“Some are born,” Phil explains finally, “some are made, but rarely is it violently. Violence is the last and desperate measure, a battle field tactic used only when necessary.” Phil explains what joining a Clan means, how you become part of the pool of power and how the power becomes part of you. There are many humans that choose to align themselves with a clan, but take only the lightest of family or friendship bonds, because they wish to remain fully human for one reason or another. Their decisions are respected, no one looks down upon them for choosing to find other things more important. “Well,” Phil grimaces, “almost no one.”

“Prejudice?” Clint guesses.

Phil taps his nose. “Megalomaniacs too.”

“So,” Clint moves their empty plates to the nearby table and tugs Phil to him, pulling them down onto the sofa, with Phil pushing firmly into him from the top, pressing their bodies together, comfortable and intimate. “What aren’t you saying?”

Phil moves their limbs around and shimmies a little to the right so that Clint is no longer the sole supporter of his weight.

“Come on,” Clint prods, twining the legs together, “we’re already werewolf married, I’m pretty sure I know the rest, just tell me so we can move on.”

Phil laughs into Clint’s skin, laughs at the utter inanity of the phrase and the utter truth of it too. “This is why I was afraid,” Phil says while nosing carefully at the nearest patch of skin, Clint’s shoulder, “it’s not just that I accidentally bound you to me for the rest of your life, but that in doing so, I have permanently changed you.”

The chest under his hand huffs out a large breath. “Oh Phil,” Clint murmurs braiding their fingers together, “I can see all the way to the Hudson from here now, as long as I don’t go all deranged and psychotic during the full moon, I’m fine with it.”

Phil pushes up onto the arm wedged into the back of the couch so he can look down into Clint’s face. “Your world is very strange,” he says gently, leaning in for a single soft kiss. By mutual agreement they shift away again, if they start, they won’t stop, not for a long time and there are still meetings to be had and conversations to endure.

Eventually, they peel away from each other and take their turns washing and dressing, just as Phil is putting his coat back on, he feels naked without it these days, Stark’s voice echoes through their rooms.

“Hey! Remus and Sirius, JARVIS says you’re dressed, get down here, I have questions.”

Phil sighs and clutches his staff close, “It was too much to hope that Stark could be another point of difference between our worlds, wasn’t it?”

Clint claps his shoulder and smirks, “Definitely.”

Their appearance in the common living room generates a “Hail, hail the gangs all here,” from Stark. Phil feels he is showing incredible strength of will by not rolling his eyes immediately.

This time, there are formal introductions and Phil gamely shakes everyone’s hand even if it makes him wish for the leather gloves in his pockets. Skin contact means something else here apparently.

The first one up is Steve Rogers, he is the most startling difference and deeply highlights how out of he was yesterday not to notice this difference. Tall and muscular, this Steve is a far cry from the gangly adult crisscrossed in a artificial lay lines. This world must have different definitions of power and different ways to achieve it. He is, however, still the gentlest soul Phil has ever met and his presence is a warm breeze against his still aching soul.

The next one is the scruffy and unfamiliar man, who is still a mystery after Phil gets his first decent look at him.

“Bruce Banner,” the man says and he is nothing but serenity until their hands meet and Phil gasps. 

There is a simmering beast below, barely restrained, his eyes meet Banner’s and they both stare in shock. The low hum of gamma makes itself known and Phil understands why the touch transmits so much. “Your name sounds familiar,” Phil says because he can tell the rest is not a conversation on the table for someone Banner barely knows.

Banner goes puzzled, “Giant green rage monster?”

Phil frowns and thinks, “Not green ones, no.”

Banner shrugs, “Then probably a research paper of some sort.”

In his head, Clint’s presence scratches his mental itch, he has an idea of why Banner is an unknown to him that he’ll share later. Phil just nods and Banner moves off.

Natasha Romanov, as she is introduced, sets off every predator alarm bell he has and the only thing keeping him relaxed is Clint’s soothing and sure demeanor. “Tasha,” he says, “play nice.” 

In his world, the Russian Syndicate, decades ago, had a secret training facility known only as the Blood Box. There they took children and exposed them to a mutated were gene. A combination of panther and spider. It was unstable and unpredictable and each ‘creation’ was unique and their transitions were terrible and painful. The Blood Box’s biggest danger was that there were no two soldiers alike. The gene was so mutagenic that each successful patient blossomed differently, with different powers. After they were examined and tested, their abilities and skills had to be honed to razor sharpness while their wills had to be bent and molded for their purpose. With no two alike, there could be no standard training regimen and each case was always in danger of failing in terrible and blood soaked ways. The Blackest Widow, Natasha Romanov, was long thought to be their greatest success. Until she walked into Clan Shield and asked kindly for their help to burn them to the ground.

Clan Shield was more than happy to help.

Phil offers his hand, she takes it and then squeezes. It’s hard to tell what she’s after, because she doesn’t need physical intimidation to threaten him, he knows if she wants to she will suss out every secret he has just so she can take him apart piece by piece if need be. He squeezes back with the exact same pressure, relying on the old ceremonial protocols for greeting a rival combatant in a peaceful setting. Eventually she gives him a small smile and releases him.

“Phil Coulson,” she says in a low and careful voice, “was the best man I knew, do not tarnish his name.”

Phil raises an eyebrow but nods. He likes her, a lot.

Thor is more difficult, he will sense what Phil truly is, already has in fact, he remembers the hammer coming at him yesterday. Thor may also sense Clint’s change, at the moment it is small, but soon, and they will have to prep for that with supplies, it will be like a pebble rolling down a snow covered hill. They both get tremendous greetings, Clint is hugged heartily and Phil is clapped on the back so hard he stumbles. There is a moment, when their eye meet, that makes Phil think they will be having a longer conversation later, but Thor seems satisfied by his claims of friendship and peace for now.

“And finally,” Stark ambles up, “I’ve saved the best for last.”

“Not possible,” Phil says easily, “I met Clint yesterday.”

Natasha smirks, Steve, Bruce and Thor outright laugh and Stark pretends to be wounded. “Well the sass is set at the right levels at least.” 

Behind him he can feel a wall of warmth and embarrassment, he gently tugs at it and wraps it around himself, letting Clint feel the happiness it feeds. 

Despite the bluster, Stark actually goes easy on the interrogation and it’s mostly a congenial conversation that meanders into lunch until they began to feel like friends. That’s when Stark strikes.

“So,” Stark stretches, standing from the table, “convince me that magic is real.”

“Tony,” Steve says, “you’ve seen magic before.”

Stark shakes his head, “No I’ve seen science so advanced it’s almost indistinguishable from magic, but I can still get data from it, readings and recordings that register in ways that tell me as amazing and magical,” Stark waves his hands and wiggles his fingers, “it all is, it starts somewhere inside explainable physics.”

So the fight begins. It’s mostly a friendly argument, Stark, and Banner on occasion, flail in delightful intellectual spasms as they try to rationalize each tidbit of Phil’s world he shares with them. Truthfully, they are not far off, but Phil doesn’t quite have it in him yet to explain just how fluidly magic and technology interchange in his world. Magic is simply another energy source, completely readable and malleable, like any other, with the right tools of course.

Stark is just reaching the point where he will demand Phil accompany him someplace with expensive scanners so he can watch while Phil performs like a trick monkey. None of that will happen, no matter how many sad faces and sarcastic comments Stark throws his way until he can experiment for himself, in a safe location, far away from anything explosive. Phil is ducking yet another unsubtle remark when an alarm sounds.

The room goes silent with tension.

“Avengers,” Steve hoists himself up off the couch, “assemble.”

Phil follows Clint out of the room, easily keeping pace with his fast jog. “You really call yourselves that?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, not breaking stride, “why?”

“It’s just so,” Phil easily swings around the corner and into the most elaborate locker room he has ever seen, “my world.”

Clint pops his locker and is already stripping out of his comfortable t-shirt. “What’re we called there?”

Phil is easily digging through the piles, handing Clint each item as he needs it. “Strike Team Delta would be the closest equivalent.”

Clint laughs easily, “Oh man, that’s hilarious,” he says reaching for, of all things, a bow and arrow. Off of Phil’s questioning look he smiles, “You thought it was just a hobby?”

In truth, he hasn’t thought much about it at all, there has been no time to finish sorting through all of what Clint has given him, so he just shakes his head. “I was actually wondering if you had a spare?”

Everyone in the room freezes.

“You,” Stark emphasized the pronoun, “can fire a bow?”

Phil shrugs, “I come from a world of myth and magic, do you really suppose there are many who cannot fire a bow?” He’s damn good at it too, being Were helps with that a lot and as he eyes Clint’s kit up and down, he knows it will sing beautifully when plucked. He meets Clint’s eyes after the once over and he knows he’s caught out, Clint understands that separating now, when there is danger, would be difficult, possibly enough of a distraction to get Clint hurt. It’s not a true issue, something that will affect them forever, the problem is that their bond is too new and was undertaken without any preparation.

“Okay,” Natasha says over their intense looks, “but can you hit anything?”

Before she is done one of Clint’s arrows is embedded in the O of her name on her locker. She looks impressed, possibly only because he did that by hand.

Stark comes up to him, a true assessing look on his face. “That’s not just a simple coat is it?”

“No,” Phil says, “In theory it should repel quite a lot of force, I haven’t tested it on this side of the—” He ducks as Natasha’s blade whizzes past him, but the aim is off and it’s obviously going for the coat tails. It bounces easily, the force of her throw denting the tip when it hits the fabric.

“Okay then,” Stark says wide eyed, “here’s a comm unit, Katniss can explain it on the way.”

Phil feels he’s going to have to catch up on a lot of culture before he begins to understand Stark’s nicknames. He buttons up his coat, sticks the comm into his ear and then reaches for the bow Clint is holding out to him. He takes it with reverence, it is a fine piece of workmanship, light but solid in his hands, he tests the draw and feels the heavy weight it requires, 70 pound draw, perhaps more. He will need to take a few careful shots in order to get the feel of this weapon, but it is so finely crafted it should not take much more than that. He is handed a quiver, a softer one than what Clint carries, there’s a flash of a control mechanism on one of Clint’s straps and he understands there isn’t time to learn any flashy weaponry. That’s fine, he’s pretty damn deadly with the basic armaments. 

Between the two of them they carry 6 extra quivers of arrows, as they move, in step, up the ramp Stark’s voice comes over the comm. “Holy shit who let Tolkien into the matrix.”

“Shut up Stark,” Phil says on principle, he is not surprised to hear Clint’s voice echo his, they are deliberately syncing up, becoming two halves of a whole, for both of their protections.

Clint warms up the jet and everyone takes a perch while Steve dials them into SHIELD for their briefing. Apparently the recent invasion they fought back left a lot technology earth side and morons all over the planet are crawling out of the woodwork to get their hands on it and then do unbelievably stupid and dangerous things with it.

Not so different than his usual mission then.

Steve is about to sign off when he pauses and glances back on Phil. “SHIELD base ops please be advised we have a guest with us today, he’ll be another eyes on high and sharpshooter.”

The line goes silent and then gusts with a sigh. “And what’s their call sign Captain?”

Steve looks at him.

It’s tempting to make them both Hawkeye and force everyone else to use them as a unit, but that kind of strategy requires more than thirty seconds of consideration. So he offers his regular call sign, “Lone Wolf.” Inside his head Clint’s presence becomes gently interrogative before soothing down the jagged edges the memory of that name produces.

They disembark, both only taking two quivers, if reloading is needed they’ll fetch it or someone will bring it to them. As the Captain makes the calls everyone freezes as they realize they know Clint can free climb in and out of his position if need be, but they all assume Phil probably can’t. Phil gives them a dangerous smile, salutes them and runs to the wall Clint made his first jump from and follows easily.

There’s an appreciative whistle and then Stark’s voice, clear as a bell despite the surrounding noise, “May I be the first to say,” he pauses, watching Phil complete a leap between building gaps, “welcome to the club Wolfy.”

Phil’s smile sharpens further, “And you haven’t even see me shoot yet,” he nods to Clint and positions himself on the opposite side of the choke point, “you guys are easy.” He nocks his first arrow just as he hears an explosion off in the distance, the battle has begun.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is Weather here. If a migraine hits, I can write on the meds but not edit, so if the pace drops out, do not fear it's only the Polar Vortex.

Phil has been in battle with Family before, but never with another Half. There are dedicated units in Clan Shield to working with people bonded the way he and Clint are. Simply watching Clint work is amazing all on its own, but to experience his mind as it happens is incandescently beautiful.

Their first shots are overly cautious, they are both working with new equipment and strange surroundings. Clint may be able to see much further than ever, but he’s not had time to test his new senses in a controlled environment, let alone in the chaos that is a live operation. Eventually though, Clint starts making shots that are impossible, even for him. Phil’s own arrows are taking the brunt of the easier, more straight forward targets, though he suspects that his own precision is also amazing to the people watching.

The truth is, Phil would need to put in thousands of hours of practice and have to have more sheer natural talent to take some of the shots Clint now achieves, a delightful grin plastered on his face the whole time. Phil finds he definitely likes their balance of talents, it fits them together quite nicely in the field. Their team mates take a few minutes to adjust to the new skills available to them, but after that it’s smooth, if tiring, sailing.

As they beat back the black suited men and their flying robotic squids, and honestly, supervillains really need to stop focusing on the wrong things, he and Clint zigzag from roof top to roof top and in between tactical decisions about who shoots first, where and when, there is a loop of boundless joy that travels between them. They both definitely enjoy being good at what they do.

The mother squid, is twice as large but half as fast, they manage to surround her in the best of all possible locations, that is a place where the least amount of collateral damage is likely. The only problem is that the empty lot has very few perches that give even Clint a good look at her soft spot. Which is underneath and hidden amongst the tentacles. Thor and the Hulk, and now Phil understands the Giant and Green appellations Banner uses, spend their time keeping track of the huge and flailing tentacles, Stark keeps her occupied from the air and shoots strategically so that she doesn’t wander too far while Cap is sent in as Clint’s cover because his shield gives the best defense for what they need under there.

Unfortunately it’s not quite enough and Clint’s frustration is bleeding through into Phil. So, he sends a quick warning, finds a clear path for a running start off his perch and goes, jumping easily onto the large, flat, mushroom shaped head of the octopus. Immediately, half the tentacles reach up, trying to swipe him away. Years of training with a staff makes using his bow, the material is remarkably resilient, to bat away the attacks easy.

He gets a mental warning a half second shy of the verbal one, but he’s already running and in the air when the first concussive wave jolts the octopus. It’s easily a 25 foot drop, not ideal even for him, but he knew it was coming and had been working on the best landing that will hurt the least for a whole 60 seconds by the time it becomes an issue.

He rolls with the hot press of air and force and is miraculously in a decent fall position when he hits the concrete. It still hurts beyond belief and his shoulder takes a decent wack and jolt. The clean up crews are already swarming so he lets himself come to a natural stop and slowly starts straightening his limbs. Sharp pain signals a partial dislocated left shoulder, he’s ready to just jam it back in himself when Clint is suddenly there with him, hands carefully wrapping around his arm and body bracing against his to provide counter traction. There is no count to three, no lead up, just a slow even breath followed by a sharp pain and then relief.

After a few careful rotations to make sure everything is okay, Clint slumps down next to him, hip to hip, but facing the other direction. This makes it easy to lean into one another, heads bowed in fatigue. It’s a mutual decision to let the medics come to them, they are tired and sore and just happy to be with each other.

“Holy shit, I thought that was your voice.”

Phil looks up with tired eyes to find Sitwell, in a suit of all things, with his adrenaline leveling out, he has trouble not laughing. A note of caution wings its way from Clint so he just gives a tired wave.

Sitwell bends at the knees and pulls him into a tight hug. “How the hell did you do it you son of a bitch?” His voice is rough and thick with emotion.

Phil returns the hug with his uninjured arm and pulls back, fighting the dizziness that comes with each introduction to someone he already knows, the slightly different scents and heartbeats still throw him off. “Classified,” he says, feeling absolutely terrible as he does it, pretending to be this man’s friend is deeply unsettling.

Sitwell leans back, hands still clasped on Phil’s shoulders, to look at him and then raises a questioning eyebrow. “Well, classified certainly looks good on you.”

Clint chokes on the water a nearby tech gave him but says nothing. Phil elbows him softly with his throbbing arm. “Classified always looks good on me,” he says to Sitwell dryly.

“Yeah, well,” Sitwell gives him one last pat and squeeze before letting go, “go out with the Avengers too often and classified is gonna get blown out of the water and onto social media faster than you’d believe.”

Inside his head, Clint’s presence goes sharp and focused and Phil realizes he’s watching an idea form and blossom from a seedling into a fully blooming flower and almost loses track of the outside world in fascination. Clint prods him to play along. “Alas,” Phil sighs tiredly, “I think that’s the eventual idea.”

Sitwell isn’t dumb, not in any universe, his eyes narrow and he takes in the whole situation again, including the quiver still attached to Phil’s back. “So the WSC can’t kidnap you in the dead of night.” It’s not even a question.

Phil nods, because it’s certainly a good plan, advertise him up enough and he cannot disappear, not without serious repercussions.

“Phil,” Sitwell leans in quietly, “what the hell did they do to you that the WSC is this much of a problem and that this,” he waves an arm at the destruction surrounding them, “is such an easy solution. I saw you, and don’t get me wrong, you were always the baddest ass in the room but this was different,” He finishes sounding worried and looking more than a little tired.

“Classified,” Phil says just as quietly, his gut is churning because he knows now that he will probably spend the rest of his life pretending to be this world’s Phil Coulson to one person or another and he will hate it and feel terrible guilt each and every time. Clint’s presence circles around him, sharing his grief.

They both know who’s in the dark car that pulls up, it’s a combination of senses and experience. By the time Director Fury is doing his catwalk down the central line of chaos the clean up creates Sitwell has made a strategic retreat and Clint and Phil have found the strength to stand on their own two feet again, though there is an unnatural sway to their standing forms. The fight, the closeness the fight encouraged, has moved up the timetable on a few things.

“This is not,” Fury says when he stops in front of them, “what I meant by ‘take him to the tower’.”

Clint plasters on a huge and swanky grin, “What can I say sir, we got bored.”

Phil, a little giddy from the let down and a little distracted by Clint’s physical presence, mimes an obnoxious yawn.

There’s a dramatic pause, they’re the center of a three ring circus and the noise cuts out like a high wire act just cut the net. Phil internally blinks at his own metaphor and realizes that’s bleed through, a secondary side affect. Again, nothing more than a signal that their bodies are currently very busy and would appreciate if they would cut out all that extra physical activity thank you very much.

Fury stares them down for a full ten seconds before laughing, it’s a restrained sort of a laugh, his shoulders rise and fall and his head only tilts back a few degrees, but the people around them all jump like a gun has misfired somewhere close. Maybe it has, the look Fury is giving them when he finishes is only about 45% mirth, the rest is a calculating and annoyed face.

“Well then,” Fury pulls out something flat from his jacket, “I guess you’re back from the dead,” he tosses it to Phil, “Agent Coulson.”

Phil catches whatever it is one handed but has a terrible feeling about what he’s now holding and stares slack jawed at the Director. Fury nods at the object in his hands and gestures for him to look. Phil does and sees a black billfold, the kind that carries identification. He flips it open and sees… himself, only it’s not him, first of all, he’s wearing a suit and tie and absolutely no leather and secondly he looks older in the picture. No, not older, tireder, flatter. The image brings a shiver to his spine, it’s that of a dead man with kind eyes and hard lines of worry written on his face. Over his shoulder, Clint tenses and his finger reaches out to trace the outline of the image.

Phil looks back up at the director, stricken. 

Fury steps closer and clasps a great giant hand on his forearm, “Listen, it’s a good play, probably the only one we can manage this quickly. They’ll spend weeks looking for files that don’t exist in the wrong departments and by the time they realize how wrong they are we’ll have had at least two or three magazine spreads on the new Avenger.”

“Magazine spreads?” Phil asks with alarm. “No, no, I’m not that person—”

“In this world,” Fury interrupts, “you are. I saw the footage, compared to us mortals, you’re pretty damn amazing and don’t think I didn’t notice the quality of Barton’s shots went up as well,” Fury gives Barton a stern look that speaks volumes, “which also works out because I get at least 4 memos a year telling me Barton’s skills can’t possibly belong to a plain old human anyway.”

In his mind, it’s obvious Clint’s back goes up about his skills, he spends time alternating between pride, annoyance and sulkiness that he can no longer claim to be the awesomest human ever. Awesomest? That bleed through is killing his vocabulary. 

“We need time off,” Clint says, “three or four days.”

“Barton, there’s still a number of conversations we need to have.” Fury says, obviously annoyed that they’ve already been delayed a few hours.

Phil feels Clint’s hand press into his back briefly and a questioning thought skitters through his head. “Nothing I have is really going to spoil if we push the matter for a few days, besides I’m sure you’ve got your hands full dealing with Barnes.” He knows Fury probably hasn’t let that go, simply having a decent picture of a formerly unfindable operative is a huge step in an intelligence agency, it’s probably why they had such a leisurely breakfast and lunch already.

“What?” Rogers’ voice asks, hoarse and shocky.

Phil takes his comm piece out and lifts it up to show Fury and then slowly presses the power button so the light dims. “Oops.”

Fury literally growls, but surprisingly the noise does not put Phil’s back up. Phil does feel bad for dropping that on Rogers though, he’s too good a person to play those sorts of mind games with but they need the time and they need it badly or Fury will push and push and they will be stuck making do with a handful of hours now and then and Phil has already done too much without true permission. Also, this means Fury can’t hold it too close to the vest and away from Rogers.

“Four days,” Phil says and then nods as if it’s been decided.

“You’re lucky I missed you so much,” Fury yells and then is drawn into a conversation with a very angry looking Steve Rogers.

Clint looks behind them as they walk off. “I’m gonna feel bad about that for weeks.”

“We’ll make it up to him,” Phil grabs as much of their gear he can. The baby agents wandering around seem to be well trained in policing their spent arrows, so he lets it go, even if the very idea makes him tense. Your weapons, your responsibility, but he’s ready to, no, he needs to get out of there, so he makes an exception.

“You say that now,” Clint makes an after you gesture at the ramp, “but you’ve never seen his ‘I am so disappointed in you’ face. It’s disturbingly affective.”

Phil straps himself in and sighs. “Does he do that head tilt and sigh thing? Because that’s just not playing fair.”

“I know, right?” Clint smiles and starts preflight. “This is Avengers 616, take off in 5, anyone who wants to ride back to the tower with it should be strapped in by then.” Clint pauses before turning the wide band comm off, “And Tasha, I’ll see you on the flip side.”

“Avengers 616 this is SHIELD base ops, Director Fury has authorized your delayed debriefing, whatever you’ve got on him has gotta be good.” Sitwell’s voice comes through the comms sounding amused but tolerant.

“Oh you know me,” Clint smiles, “I’m just full of charm.”

“Full of something all right, good flying Avengers 616, base ops out.”

The flight back is fast considering the mileage they are putting on. Clint takes a few minutes in the beginning to make a personal call.

“Hey JARVIS, can you put in a grocery order? Enough for two grown men with healthy appetites for a a couple of days?” Clint looks to Phil for confirmation.

“Electrolytes,” Phil starts, “are important and maybe add another 50% over and above the normal daily caloric intake for Clint, precooked is fine as long as it’s real food that can give us useful calories.” He pauses to think, he’s never attended this part of the ceremony before, the closing of the loop and the change over, if there is one, are extremely private. All he has are rumors and hearsay. “Candles,” Phil remembers with startling clarity that this is in fact a ceremony, in his world they would be married when it was done, “pillar style, they should last 40 hours if possible, dried lavender and sage, olive oil, red wine, mortar and pessel, something made of all natural fibers to wear, robes would be ideal and,” he bites his lip and looks at Clint, “two leather straps long enough to go around someone’s neck and no thicker than a half inch wide and two blank medallions in silver.”

There’s a blush on his face when he’s done with his list, for some reason he feels over exposed laying it all out like that. Clint takes his hand, Phil looks to see that there is still a single hand casually clasping the yoke, so he smiles shyly. “It’s, a big deal, I know we didn’t really talk about it, but this is big.”

Clint smiles, “You got that JARVIS? I trust you buddy, do what you think is right.” He uses their joined hands to flip the switch that closes the call. Slowly, his face turns serious and Clint swallows loudly. “I spent a very long time with no home,” he says slowly, still holding onto Phil’s hand, “Six months ago any hope, any dream I might have had for a home that would be more than two friends holding each other up while the nightmares and mistakes of their pasts danced in their eyes walked into a room he knew he would never walk out of.” Clint’s eyes drop for a moment and he hesitates before going on. “And I spend a lot of time feeling like it’s my fault.”

Phil chokes up, he’s done that, he did that and only sheer dumb luck, his own biology and hours and hours of training got him back out. The recovery had been long and painful and it was hard to find a reason to work through it with the knowledge that even if they could get close enough to capture Clint, they had no way to get him back, truly back and not a caged animal pacing his cell. What is worse was they’d never made promises, never had those conversations so he couldn’t even explain it in a way that made sense, not to himself or to psych.

Those months, when they had gotten Phil back to partial duty, he had re-earned his handle, Lone Wolf. He’d died a little inside. He suspects there had been the beginnings of a bond that Loki had severed with his taking of Clint. He was pining away, he can admit that now, eventually he learned to live life again and the familial bonds took up the space that Clint’s removal had torn away. It became easier to get up in the morning, go into work and actually care about what he was doing and to not let the guilt eat him up inside, but only just.

He thinks maybe that’s why he walked in on Loki again.

“Oh, Phil,” Clint’s voice interrupts his thoughts, rough and thick.

Phil’s head snaps up and he sees tears falling down Clint’s face. That bleed through is getting worse. Or maybe he just needs Clint to know. He has no idea anymore. It’s getting too jumbled and he has a slowly dawning feeling that this is going to be anything but a normal bond.

There’s three very large boxes at their door in the hallway, two are full of food and one with the rest of the items. Something about crossing the threshold stops them, there’s a feeling of intent in the air and stepping into the apartment signals the start of something important. The both breath out slowly and nod before taking that first step.

“You get the food, I’ll unpack this,” Phil nods to the box with all of the ceremonial supplies. His voice is hushed and reverent. In the deepest recesses of his mind, he can admit that this is a day he’s thought about, usually just small details because he could never handle thinking about more than that at a time. The idea of happily ever after is a fairy tale to people like him, people with his job, his experiences. So it’s strange to be staring at the pieces of this ritual, all at once, knowing it’s his job, his honor, to put them together correctly.

Clint makes them a meal while Phil crushes herbs and sits them inside olive oil to soak and steep. Clint sets the table while Phil unfolds their robes, which are raw silk and beautiful, a deep royal purple and a blue/black that changes with the light. JARVIS is very smart and has extrapolated incredibly accurately, Phil smiles as he extracts a few extras, some useful some not. A silver platter gets set aside along with a small athame with a stone handle. Phil had plans to just grab the sharpest paring knife in the kitchen, this is better.

They eat dinner quietly, they’re actually both pretty hungry, it was a long and active time since lunch. After, Phil sends Clint in to shower along with a robe and a small glass of the herb infused oil. “Anywhere you can reach,” he instructs.

Clint gives him a leer which actually gets a blush out of Phil. “No, not there.”

While Clint is busy Phil takes the candles and places them carefully around the bed, but far enough away that random flailing won’t knock them over. The specific placements are less important than the crude circle they make all together. In the center of the bed he places the silver tray with the athame, two glasses each containing a mouthful of wine, more of the oil in it’s own container, and their leather straps and blank medallions.

Clint exits the bathroom with mostly dry hair, glowing skin and wrapped in silk, the image pulls Phil’s brain offline for a few seconds, long enough for Clint to gather Phil’s bundle of items and shove him gently in the direction of the bathroom. Ceremonial anointing is not a new thing for Phil and the excitement is starting to pool low in his stomach, so he manages to shower, dry and rub the oil into his skin in what he feels is probably record time.

Stepping back into the bedroom, he finds Clint curled up in a spare, comfortable looking chair, reading. He steps up to Clint and examines him in the candle light. “You look amazing.”

“I feel a little greasy,” Clint admits but he gives Phil a long look and shakes his head, “but if I look anything like you, greasy is worth it.”

He arranges them on the bed, sitting cross legged with the tray between them. He cuts their right palms and lets three drops fall into each cup from each of them. He drops the blank medallions into the bowl of oil and then looks up into Clint’s eyes. He sees mild curiosity and a hint of impatience and a spark of something deep and exciting. 

“There are” Phil starts, his voice feels strangely hoarse with disuse, “dozens of different ceremonies, countless different ways words are thrown together in meaningful arrangements but none of them would be appropriate here because they would mean nothing to you,” Phil smiles gently to soften his pronouncement, ”you don’t have the context for any of them so there would be no weight behind them.”

Clint nods slowly.

“Honestly,” Phil ducks his head, “We’re already bound so tightly together I’d worry what the words would do, so I guess it’s a good thing I don’t think we really need them.”

“We really don’t,” Clint agrees quietly.

They grab their glasses of wine and clink them together gently. 

“Salut,” Clint says, a soft, anticipatory smile decorating his face, Phil can feel it under his skin.

“Life,” Phil says, using a traditional toast for good fortune and happiness. 

They both drink their wine in one swallow and then put their glasses down. Phil retrieves the oil soaked amulets and places one over the cut on Clint’s palm and covers it with his own uncut hand, Clint repeats the gesture with the open cut on Phil’s other palm.

“Now,” Phil murmurs, “the easy part.”

Clint’s chuckles follow him down into the light trance, but he isn’t joking, this part is easy, the easiest he’s ever felt. Phil has initiated his share of low level bonds, both as a sign of trust and friendship and as a way to make an op easier. Temp bonding can be hard on some people, but Phil could usually handle it. He has on a single occasion initiated something stronger, a familial bond with the Blackest Widow. It was both to calm the people who were sure she would turn on them and assure her of Clan Shield’s own priorities. She is, was, a sister to him.

Here and now, it’s no effort at all to find Clint, the thick rope connecting them has grown once more, it’s massive and healthy looking and just a little bit intimidating. He offers a mental hand to Clint and together they walk into the pulsing center, the intensity slips around them and the world rushes away in favor of ecstatic mixing of their core selves.

They come back hours later, stiff and creaky with dried tear tracks marking their faces. Phil feels dizzy and a little high on the process and Clint looks similarly struck. Phil is still without words for it, the bliss of intermingling makes everything seem brighter and sharper.

Clint’s breathing is fast but steady and he blinks slowly. “Wow.”

“Wait till tomorrow,” Phil says, taking their amulets and putting them aside and then moving the tray off the bed and out of the way, “we get to do it again, only this time we’ll have an idea of what we’re doing.” When it’s all said and done, they will always have that warm and bright spot inside them to retreat to, to recharge in or to simply Be with each other. The process they are going through now is more complex than that, they are not simply being, they are becoming. Their minds and bodies are slowly learning each other and then learning from each other. It’s one of the reasons Clint will be a Were when they are done. It’s also the gentlest and most pleasant way of doing so.

There are stories, nightmares really, of what happens when this is forced. When someone simply possesses the other. It requires a level of physical and mental violence that is quite simply, abhorrent. Compatibility is not simply a yes or no question, it’s possible to slowly become compatible over time. It’s a lot like falling in love, but as with most things, there are ways to force it and those ways are not only illegal but still allow the family members of the injured to assume their own Justice without repercussions in some parts of Phil’s old world. The irony is that emergency turns, usually in the middle of battle, are nearly as violent. 

While lost in his thoughts, Clint has come closer, the brush of his lips against Phil’s brings him back. Clint crawls forward, giving Phil soft, careful kisses, Phil finds himself leaning back as Clint advances until he is flat on the bed and Clint is crouching over him, legs bracketing his hips. “Hi,” Clint says, looking very satisfied with their new arrangement.

“Hi,” Phil says back, feeling goofy and perturbing giddy.

Clint lowers his head so that his nose touches the skin on Phil’s jaw, he then proceeds to spend long seconds just nuzzling against it and rubbing back and forth like an animal scent marking. It pushes Phil’s heart rate up and makes him shiver in pleasure. Eventually they get back to kissing only now they can allow themselves the decadence of long, wet and dirty mingling of lips and tongue.

Clint eventually pulls back to stare at what Phil’s open robe reveals with reverence. He then proceeds to spend long minutes tracing the black ink and the slightly raised lines of carefully added patterned scarring with his fingers and tongue until finally Phil begs for more, for anything really. Eventually Clint comes back up and they kiss again, frantic, Phil rolls them until Clint is under him and he can feel a delicious hardness pressing into his leg. He rocks his hips experimentally and gasps at the shivering sensations of his own cock being rubbed by soft, hot skin and the twin echo he feels in his head of Clint’s doing the same against his slightly hairier belly.

It starts them on a feedback loop of pleasure that takes their breath away. They become a singular mass of slowly rolling hips, grasping hands and kiss reddened lips. Eventually the pleasure is so overwhelming that all they can do is pant open mouthed as they reach and reach, hips still moving languidly even though the sensations are a torrent of feeling under their skin. When they come, it’s an overwhelming experience, leaving them panting and weak limbed. It takes a long time for their breathing to slow and for the feeling to return to all of their extremities. It’s also a few long minutes before they can separate out whose limbs belong to whom.

Phil slides off Clint, laughing at their lack of coordination, reaching haphazardly off the bed for a towel and the two bottles of gatorade he stashed there earlier. He hands one to Clint who takes it with a sated smile and chugs half it without stopping. Phil takes his own long sip of liquid and then moves to mop himself up without any real precision and then leans over to do the same for Clint, he gets distracted a little with the view, he didn’t get a chance to look earlier.

Clint, if anything, looks more gorgeous laying there flushed and sex mussed and still somehow wearing his robe and Phil just wants to devour him one delectable inch at a time. His focus keeps sliding, he should be finishing his drink and maybe getting them a snack or even just napping, but instead he leans in and draws a finger down Clint’s cock, memorizing the feel as he goes.

Clint shudders, “Jesus, I’m too close to 40 to go again this soon.”

The cock under Phil’s hands is already filling though, more than ready for another round. He looks up at Clint with a bemused grin, “There’s a genre of romance novels where I come from, that talks about these days, Maria liked to read them when she needed a break and would speculate about how much truth there was in fiction, but since no one talks about it, not really, it was all speculation.” He leans in and licks the head, savoring the taste and tucking it away with the rest of Clint’s sense profile that is already burned into his brain.

Clint shudders harder, “That shouldn’t be possible,” his hips roll a little, searching for contact.

Phil wraps his hand around him and pulls slowly, still memorizing. “Why do you think I ordered all that extra food?”

They laugh and Clint puts a hand on the back of his neck and guides him up for a kiss. They mumble half spoken words into each other’s mouths, exchanging kisses, long ones, short ones, soft ones, hard ones until Phil’s skin is buzzing happily and the endorphin rush seems more like an endorphin marathon.

Clint digs out a tube from somewhere, Phil’s not tracking everything really well at the moment, but he doesn’t really care where it came from, only that it’s there. He invites Clint between his thighs and sighs in pleasure as the first blunt digit slowly pushes in. They can’t stop touching each other, so Clint multitasks, drugging Phil with long, deep kisses as he slowly opens him up until he aches with the emptiness. “Please,” Phil murmurs into Clint’s mouth, “now, I can’t, anymore, please.”

They fumble for a pillow to put under Phil’s hips, Clint is as distracted and excited as he is. It’s humbling. Eventually they get everything in the right place and there’s nothing but Phil’s legs draped over Clint’s thighs, Clint’s hand stroking down his flank as he steadies himself. The push in is slow and smooth and it fills him up in more ways than one, when Clint bottoms out he leans in so he can meet Phil’s eyes.

“I do love you,” Clint whispers, “you, here and now, not a ghost you remind me of.”

Phil reaches up to touch Clint’s face, he cradles it in his palm and wishes he were just slightly more flexible so that they could kiss. Clint’s face crinkles with delight and Phil realizes that the feedback loops is starting back up, or maybe it never really stopped. Before they get too lost, he tries to return the sentiment, but all he’s got is a terrible joke about ghosts, ectoplasm and lube. Clint belly laughs and the movement sparks something hot and perfect inside them.

Mirth goes out of them both as the pleasure rises, Clint moves them slowly and easily, until they’re both panting with it.

_I have an idea._

Phil startles, that’s not supposed to happen, communication with words, it’s supposed to be feelings, emotions, general concepts. His alarm slips away though with Clint’s next thrust because it’s not just being filled with Clint’s perfect cock pushing in and in and touching all the right places, but it’s also the feel of a warm and slick place around his cock, Clint’s cock wrapped in pleasure, in him. Slowly, Clint begins pushing Phil’s legs up, until finally he’s folded up enough that they can kiss at the same time Clint’s rocking goes hard and fast.

It’s perfection, absolute perfection, Clint’s body against his, in his, around his and they’re kissing breathlessly and with abandon. It’s easy then, suddenly it’s so easy to just give in and up to the pleasure and they lose themselves inside of it as it crests and wanes until finally, their entire body seizes up and orgasm punches through them hard and fast and blissful.

Phil comes back to himself unable to formulate words, he can only gracelessly pet at whatever part of Clint is closest. Clint rolls off him, well tumbles off him in an uncontrolled movement and Phil’s legs unbend like a spring that’s just been let go. Clint snickers which leads to them both laughing uncontrollably, weakly pushing at each other in playful ways. The towel has miraculously stayed on the bed, their cleanup is even more haphazard than previously but Phil doesn’t care because he is fucked out and blissed out and Clint is firmly lodged inside his head and there is very little anyone could do to change that. 

Together they manage to get down another half bottle of gatorade, there’s a clumsy moment where some drips on Phil’s shoulder and Clint licks it up and they start laughing too hard before anything can come of it. Eventually Clint yawns large enough to crack his jaw, this leads to more but quieter laughter until finally they are snugged up against each other, limbs tangled loosely together slowly relaxing into sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this was not supposed to take up a whole chapter, but when I was done with the section I realized that it was really it's own chapter all by itself.

The comforting scents of sage, lavender and olive oil hit his nose and for a long moment he is home and it’s the morning after solstice, his limbs heavy with sleep and wine are slow to move and he’s relaxed and happy. Then his hand curls just slightly and the fingers under it twitch and clutch at him and his world disappears in an instant of loss. The pain is absolutely shocking and he knows, he knows he should be loose limbed and relaxed, curled gently into Clint with nothing more pressing than food and connection, but he can’t be, not just yet.

“C’mere,” Clint is pulling him close and holding him before he’s even truly awake, “s’ok.”

Phil shakes for long minutes, squeezing out a handful of bitter tears, his face pressing into Clint’s neck, his breath coming fast and just shy of whining out loud, he grieves. He knows, knew the moment Clint had surprised him on that couch, he is never going back and in many ways he’s already accepted it and moved on but the reality of being in this world is still stark. It will likely never be familiar in the same way and he will never be knowledgeable like a native. In some ways, this world is like an ill fitting suit, tailored to fit but never getting it quite right, but it’s so close that most of the time, he won’t notice, which only makes the times he does, hurt that much more.

Clint does what he can, wraps him up in a hug of caring and gentle regret and lets him ride it out until he feels ready to show his face to the world.

Eventually Phil presses a long but gentle kiss on Clint’s neck as a thank you and lifts his head up to meet Clint’s worried eyes. He smiles to reassure him, but it’s a brittle smile. It’s difficult because Clint is there inside his head and it’s all he could ever have hoped for and even as morose as he feels, the gentle probe that tickles that spot inside his head only brings back joy and completeness.

“You’re allowed to be sad,” Clint tells him eventually, “at least, that’s what everyone else keeps telling me.”

“How’s that working for you?” Phil asks, stroking Clint’s cheek.

“I admit, it sounds better from this end,” he takes Phil’s hand and kisses his knuckles. “Let’s do breakfast.”

Phil nods, thankful for the suggestions, doing something is best for him right now. They both tumble out of bed, a little shocked at their sore muscles. Clint stretches with no limits, reaching high and then bending neatly at the waist to touch the floor. It’s mesmerizing. He stops Clint before he can take off his robe. “ We’re actually supposed to stay in the robes.”

Clint’s eyes go a little wide and his eyebrows fluctuate wildly. “If I’d know that I’d have worked harder to keep it clean.”

Phil coughs a little, embarrassed he has to explain it and annoyed that he’s embarrassed. “That’s sort of the point actually, to get it dirty.”

There’s a gentle question mark that taps gently in his head, a feeling he’s come to associate with Clint. He sighs and tries to give a sense of, well, everything. It’s difficult because he comes from a place where intent is magic and magic is intent and inanimate objects can hold that intent to be used later and how places where great emotion are expressed become more than a simple series of lines on a map. He’s no magical theorist but thankfully, Clint seems to understand and he closes the robe and grabs the discarded belt to tie on.

In the kitchen Phil takes a moment to steal the wine bottle from the fridge and decant their next portion so that it’s not ice cold and tasteless when the time comes. He puts the bottle away and then spins around Clint as he takes his place in front of the fridge, rooting out various ingredients.

“Honeymoons demand pancakes,” Clint declares regally and then proceeds to make the batter from scratch, a skill that is pretty humbling to Phil. He does however feel the need to wrap his arms around Clint from behind and tuck a kiss into the back of Clint’s neck for the honeymoon crack. Clint holds him close as he moves to grab the dishware but truthfully he’s not really committed to letting Clint go, so he stays, wrapped around Clint while he measures and mixes and eventually pours and flips. There is a brief reprieve when Clint shuffles them towards the coffee machine.

While Clint cooks, Phil’s brain idles and insecurity festers. “It’s only been two days,” he says into Clint’s shoulder.

Clint flips the pancakes in the pan. “I love you because you’re the same person.”

Phil flinches.

“No,” Clint is quick to say, “I mean, the core inside of you, you have those same amazing qualities, of course I love you, how could I not?”

“Then you know I’m not an impulsive guy,” Phil’s hands tighten on Clint’s hips, “and this feels impulsive.”

“That’s because it is,” Clint lowers the flame and moves the pan before turning in Phil’s arms, “but this,” and he touches their foreheads and closes his eyes, and Phil is surrounded by that very first feeling that had swamped them both back in the overly comfortable SHIELD interrogation room, “is enough for me.” 

Phil’s breath catches and he savors that sensation that runs through him, Clint’s not wrong. That feeling says more than any thousands of words can and Phil is stunned that Clint has a better handle on how this whole thing works than Phil does sometimes, stunned and humbled.

“I may not understand everything,” Clint says eyes still closed, “but I can make a few assumptions based on what you’ve told me and I’ve gotten from your ambient thoughts, but that moment was a big deal, right, I’ve got nothing to compare it to, but from your reaction I can guess.”

Phil cups Clint’s cheek, that moment is a rare one, usually the bond works like regular marriage, two people get to know one another, sometimes form friendship or light familial bonds along the way but in general, they fall in love over a period of time and then choose, and not everyone does, a deeper bond. What makes Phil squirm is that the initial contact had no consent, no intent, just desperation, loneliness and instinct. “It feels too good to be true,” the words are hard to get out through the lump in his throat.

“Oh honey, no,” Clint murmurs, kissing him carefully, two, three, four times. Inside he feels Clint’s own worries about how fast this is and how some minutes he feels too lucky for words and others like it’s all going to end in fire and brimstone. Then it shifts and Clint sends him the small aches he looks forward to Phil soothing, the want of the little things like quiet breakfasts and bickering over the laundry. Those things sound pretty nice to Phil also and he wraps Clint up in that feeling. “So,” Clint says, “can I go back to the pancakes before this batch is ruined?” He’s smiling as he says it, clear happiness shining in his eyes.

“Ruined pancakes would be a symbol of the decline of western civilization.” Phil smiles, releasing Clint just enough for him to turn back around.

After the pancakes are nothing but crumbs, syrup and a memory, Clint gets back up, pulls out more eggs and some breakfast sausage, gives Phil a questioning look and turns to prepare their next course.

“I did warn you about the calorie intake,” Phil piles the dirty dishes up and loads them into the small dishwasher while Clint cooks. They stuff themselves silly and then curl up on the couch for a nap, TV quiet in the background. Lunch is a similar but slightly smaller repeat and while Clint is cleaning up Phil resets the tray in the bedroom. 

This time, they anoint each other, help each other back into their robes, cut the opposite palms and then drink their wine and settle their medallions. When they sink into the bond, it’s still thrilling, it’s always thrilling, but there’s more control than the first time. This session is about sharing landmarks, core values and memories, ideals and ideologies. It’s about a thousand dates, a thousand conversations, all in the span of a few hours.

They come out of it feeling a little high and Clint’s gaze is already going heated, Phil barely has the time to move the tray off the bed before Clint pounces. He opens Clint up and then fucks him hard and fast until they both collapse, but instead of pulling out, Phil just stays there, happy and snug, kissing Clint softly until they both come back enough to start over, slower and languid the second time.

They stuff themselves with a late dinner and stumble sex stupid and happy back into bed where Clint sucks a third and very amazing orgasm out of him. He’d return the favor but Clint colors gorgeously and says he’s good. They’re still feedback looping during the sex, it’s pretty amazing.

By day two of their four day vacation, Phil can see Clint getting a little annoyed at the level of hunger he’s displaying. “It’ll die down I promise, you’ll eventually only want a few more ounces of protein per meal, but you’ll also be able to go longer without if you need to.”

They settle in for the third and final round, but before Phil starts he hesitates.

“What?” Clint asks.

“You’ll feel different when we’re done.”

Clint smirks, “I already feel different.” He’s spent some time tourist spotting from the balcony.

Phil chuckles and takes his hand. “This is the big one,” he explains, “I’ve heard the first few minutes can be rough.”

“Will I be able to turn into a wolf?” Clint asks, terrible and mischievous plans obvious in his eyes.

“Full transformation,” Phil explains, “is theoretically possible for anyone, but in reality for most people it takes a major stressor, something huge, not just a single emotion, but a jumble, usually fear and pain and anger along with adrenaline and various other situation specific hormones. There was a rise in certain types of crime after the pharmaceutical industry really got going in the early 20th century. You could drug some of those responses right out of a person.”

“Is it that hard for everyone?”

Phil thins his lips, it’s another one of those questions that’s both simple to answer but complex without a thorough cultural and sociological grounding of the topic. “The best description of the type of person who would have an at will ability to transform would be an Alpha though we don’t really use that nomenclature anymore.” He thinks about the Fury from his world, the large and dark wolf that had rescued him once. “They’re more like, heads of families. Large families tend to have a large amount of power flowing through them, the Family Head is the lynch pin for the family hierarchy so all of it flows through him or her.”

“Man,” Clint whistles, “the mafia in your world must be seriously twisted.”

That is a very concise way of illustrating that Clint understands exactly what Phil is talking about and has already extrapolated the problems that can crop up as a result of power hungry families that like to induct members just for the numbers. Arranged marriages had a small uptick in the 60s before some laws were passed.

“Does that make you an Alpha?”

Phil’s head snaps up from where he’d been studying Clint’s chest distractedly. “What?”

Clint’s smile goes dark and delicious. “Are you an Alpha now? I mean, part of why this happened so quickly was that when you got shoved here, it severed all of your previous bonds, right? And now you’re initiating a new one. Bringing me into your family.”

He had… not thought of that. “I don’t… think so? I mean, maybe technically but I’d need more than one person with more than one type of bond. With you it’s more like we’re… basically the same. The depth of the bond, quite frankly, I’ve only heard of in case studies to be honest.” Phil is very invested in not being an Alpha, that’s a responsibility he never wants. He’s very sure of that. Mostly. It’s just, looking at Clint, he understands that protective streak, the will to do what has to be done, even if it means transforming your body, your self, into another form to do it. He understands it now in a way he never has before.

Clint’s hand stretches across the tray to tuck behind Phil’s ear, where his blunt fingernails proceed to scratch the patch of skin there. Phil twists his head sharply and bits their tips.

“Bad doggy,” Clint laughs, “no biscuit.”

Phil would say something, but he’s too busy sucking on Clint’s fingers and smiling innocently.

Clint swallows as the mirth slides off his face to be replaced with something more sensual, “Never mind. Good doggy. Very good doggy.”

Clint’s fingers leave Phil’s mouth with a dirty pop and Phil deliberately licks his lips and raises an eyebrow.

“Message received,” Clint rasps, “no more bad dog jokes.”

“Excellent,” Phil smiles, going for the athame, “now to business.” He cuts both of Clint’s palms and then turns over the athame to Clint and motions for him to do the same to him, they drip and then drink their wine. The medallions, no longer blank, but with the faintest of outlines of the final design which will come out even more after this session and finalize in the flames that signal the end of the ceremony are next. Clint makes an interested noise at the changes, but lets it go in favor of carefully settling one into the middle of the slowly pooling blood in Phil’s palm.

Phil once participated in a battlefield turn, it was because he joined Clan Shield their paperwork is vast, extensive and occasionally a little esoteric. If you are not Were, you are asked in what situations would you consider becoming one, if you are, you are asked in what situations you are willing to turn someone. It’s considered part of your basic medical file. If you indicate you’re willing to participate in a life saving change, medical takes you aside and explains the entire procedure, you’re quizzed, tested and then handed a little card explaining you are certified and authorized to participate in ECM, Emergency Change Medicine. Phil had put his next to his Emergency First Aid certification.

Occasionally, early in his career, he would be picked for a mission based on his ECM certification, it would tip the balance if everything else was equal between him and another operative’s file. Then, Chechnya. Chechnya was a bloody, terrifying failure. The literature talks about how there’s a difference between understanding the process of a forced change on paper and participating in your first one. 75% of all ECM certified persons drops their qualifications after their first hands on experience. The literature, if anything, underestimates the trauma of that first time. There’s a reason insurance companies are willing to pay for 12 - 18 months of therapy per change, it’s because qualified ECM personal are hard to find and retain.

He and Melinda couldn’t be in the same room with each other for more than 6 months and it had taken upwards of 2 years before they could resume any sort of friendship. After he’d done it the EMTs on the ground had treated _him_ for shock and the nightmares still sometimes hit him out of nowhere.

Because of that, he’s unconsciously bracing himself for the push, but it never comes. Instead Clint blooms like a rare and precious flower, inside Phil’s head Clint becomes three dimensional and Phil is enraptured because he hasn’t been aware that Clint was all that flat to begin with. Gently he coaxes and Clint accepts and soon the identical pocket inside of Clint’s core being that matches Phil’s and that has been built over the past 40 or so hours is slowly filling and the sensation is beautiful. It is perfection. Eventually, he slows the feed down to a trickle and then coaxes Clint’s body to follow his as he deliberately rebuilds that energy. He feels like the sun, the rain, the gentle wind that spreads the pollen, he is nature and Clint is nurtured.

If the two people participating in the ceremony are both the same type of Were, the intermingling of core essences goes a little differently and the results are more symbolic. If the ceremony is between two different Weres and that’s only started happening in the last 100 years or so, then the exchange can have some affect on the the individual, small but unique talents can be shared. If you start with a a non Were, you have to change them first, before the exchange. It can make the end result a little different. Were supremacists like to spout the ideology that humans have nothing to contribute, but science has slowly been catching up, but it’s hard to get a lot of objective and well documented evidence for something that they have no way to measure.

Anecdotal stories have been around for centuries though, usually told as worst case scenarios and used to encourage being changed before the ceremony so there’s no Were corruption. Phil has never subscribed to that theory, even if it is his generation that has the most trouble adjusting. He’s looking forward to Clint sharing with him, he finds the idea of it appealing and a little arousing. So it’s with a lot of excitement that he encourages Clint to dig into his own now nearly full well and to send it to Phil.

It’s tremendous, the feeling that swells when Clint completes the loop, overwhelming and life changing, humbling. So very humbling. The last of the doubts melt away because nothing this perfect, no one that matches him this well could be wrong. Waiting would just have been wasted time and Phil feels like too much time has been wasted already.

They come out of it after the sun has set and the candles have burnt down to near nothing. The barest flickers of dying embers sputter as Clint’s eyes open. For long seconds Clint sits frozen, breathing hard.

“My god,” Clint chokes, “Phil, oh my god.”

“Hey Clint,” Phil smiles, once again carefully putting aside their ritual accessories, “ready to try making a sense profile?”

“Sure,” Clint’s voice shakes, “bring it on.”

Phil guides Clint through his first pass, it’s a technique that helps new Weres focus, the trick is having someone nearby they’d want to imprint. Clint takes great joy in the process. Vision alone takes them nearly 30 minutes and Clint remains fascinated by the differences between his stomach and his legs. Taste eventually makes Phil come, panting into Clint’s hair after he’s checked every single bit of skin and returns to Phil’s nipples to suck on them until they’re hard and sore, letting Phil thrust helplessly against the silky skin of Clint’s thigh. The distraction of sense marking actually disrupts the feedback loop, but that it’s still possible is interesting. Though, not as interesting as Clint’s cock looking aching red.

“Think of it as advanced touch,” Phil murmurs just before sucking Clint down.

Clint shudders, babbles incoherently and comes in thirty seconds. “Jesus, my dick is more sensitive, how is that possible?” He says when he gets his breath back.

Phil, unable to resist, the endorphins of orgasm keeping him a little loopy, says, “Magic.”

Clint tackles him and moves onto smell, after he roots out all of his subtle differences, he marvels how one patch can be so different than another. For hearing, well, Phil has ideas. He pushes Clint down flat on his back and tells him to listen carefully, a person’s heartbeat and breathing can be very interesting while they are exerting themselves and one sort of exertion sounds very similar to others.

“Also,” Phil smirks and says, “I’d bet it’s not just your dick that’s more sensitive,” just before he pushes one lube slick finger inside of him.

Clint’s cursing gets pretty creative, Phil let’s him work it out, clenching and then eventually thrusting back onto his finger. He keeps it to a pace that’s just slightly too fast so that the burn keeps Clint from jumping over the edge before it’s time.

“Listen to my heartbeat,” Phil says quietly into Clint’s ear a little bit later while twisting three fingers into Clint, “listen to how make you it beat faster,” he curls his middle finger, grazing the little nub he’s found, Clint’s body goes rigid in pleasure which in turn makes Phil’s burn in need and his circulatory system work harder. “Hear it? How when you,” he twists again, gently, “make that noise my body wants nothing more than to sink inside of you and” he twist again, “fuck until we can’t walk?”

“Hnn,” Clint whines, “yes, god yes, I hear it.”

“Good,” Phil rasps, taking his fingers out and then slicking his cock, “roll over, onto your knees.”

Clint’s breath hitches and he’s on his knees in a blur. Phil takes his hips and pulls him back. “Up,” Phil reaches for Clint’s shoulder and pulls, “up, just knees, no hands.” He pulls Clint back further, “Sit,” he says, lining their knees up so that Phil’s are just inside Clint’s, “that’s it,” he encourages, holding the edges of their robes out of the way as Clint lowers himself, “listen to me as you stuff my cock inside of you, listen to me,” Phil’s voice is low and rough and it’s hard to maintain control as Clint slides down, hot, tight and perfect. “Yeah, that’s it, now,” Phil wraps his arm around Clint’s shoulders, pulling him until they’re flush and Clint’s cheek is pressing into his, “Make me come, listen to me come.”

Clint’s back immediately arches and his hips start to undulate with no obvious goal, but he gets it under control quickly and soon there’s a continuous tight pull up and a gravity driven downward thrust. Each time Clint’s lands it pushes a huffed breath and nearly inaudible whine from his lungs. Phil spends most of his time sucking on Clint’s neck, occasionally biting down and feeling Clint clench around him perfectly.

“That’s it Clint,” Phil’s entire body is basically a sexual lightning rod at this point, every point of contact, especially where the silk of the robe rubs against his chest and nipples, is a zing of pleasure and Clint’s working him hard. “I’m so close and you are so perfect, I just need—” Clint’s got Phil’s fingers in his mouth, sucking, “oh fuck,” at this point Phil is actively holding his hips still as Clint works himself up and down, “are you listening?” Clint nods frantically, “Can you hear me? Can you hear how good you are, how fucking amazing this is, I can’t, I can’t—” The orgasm starts in his balls and explodes outward, “fuck,” Phil’s hips thrust up sharply three, four times, “fuck, Clint, baby, yes, god you are so good.”

Phil lets Clint guide the hand he’d been sucking on down to his own cock and he happily wraps around it and pulls. Clint comes on the first upstroke and it wrings a few more intensely pleasurably spasms from Phil who struggles to keep his hand a steady place for Clint’s to fuck into. Phil eventually rests his head between Clint’s shoulder blades and hugs him while they catch their breath. 

Clint rests his forearms on top of Phil’s. “Holy crap,” he breathes, “no seriously, holy crap.”

Phil laughs and slowly lowers them to the bed, when he slips out of Clint they both twitch. They quickly cuddle up with each other, Clint using Phil’s shoulder as a pillow and tracing nonsense designs on his chest. 

Eventually Clint yawns, “I can’t decide if we should pass out or eat,” Clint’s stomach rumbles loudly, “well, that’s one vote.”

Phil pats Clint’s hand and pushes up. “We have things to do before sleep, come on.”

They make a huge meal and inhale it quickly, they clean up after and Phil grabs the wok from the cabinet. “People who can afford it abscond to a ritual circle in the woods, there’s a couple of destination vacation spots meant for this kind of thing, but really, it’s the thought and the open air that counts.” He gathers the rest of the materials and leads Clint out to his roomy balcony.

“JARVIS,” Phil calls before closing the door.

“Yes Agent Coulson?” 

Phil raises a brow at the honorific, but lets it go. “There’s gonna be a little show out there, I’m pretty sure we’re high enough not to be seen, but if you could sooth any fears about crazy naked men setting fires on balconies I’d really appreciate it.”

“Agent Coulson,” JARVIS says after what Phil is sure an extra pause, “consider who my creator is, I provide that sort of intervention as a matter of course, assuming no one is actually in danger.”

Clint wags a finger at the ceiling, “Sometimes I think your sense of humor is dryer than Phil’s.”

“Thank you, Agent Barton.”

Still, they make a small effort to move some greenery around to give them some waist down cover. “Normally,” Phil explains while setting up the wok, “this is usually done in a bronze cauldron, but that’s just tradition, not a requirement.” He pours half of the remaining oil into the wok, then he removes Clint’s robe, folds it carefully and puts it in the wok. He gestures for Clint to do the same for him. On top he puts their medallions, the engravings darker and deeper but the image is still fuzzy. On top of that he pours the rest of the oil.

“Olive oil has a pretty low smoke point,” Clint says, “and it’s kind of gross when it does.”

“That would be an issue,” Phil nods, taking the athame and pricking his finger and adding three drops, he gestures for Clint to do the same, “if this were a traditional fire.” He puts the tip of the athame into the center of the pile in the wok and closes his eyes. “This is the first spell we teach children, mostly because it doesn’t require any special skills, talents or ingredients but can’t be done outside of a ceremonial pot.”

Phil takes Clint’s hand, “Close your eyes and just feel for it, watch me do this.” He lets a small trickle of power flow down the blade and into the pot then he kicks it into high gear, pushing the molecules into a faster rotation. When he opens his eyes the fire is just starting. He smiles at Clint who has also opened his eyes.

Clint steps closer, staring, “No smoke.”

“Nope,” Phil agrees, “it’ll burn hot, fast and neat too.”

“Cool.”

It’s a little cool out to be naked on a balcony 50 some odd floors in the air and Phil hands still feel empty when they’re not touching Clint. So he touches, well, they touch, it’s mostly just absent stroking while wrapped around each other. The energy of the ceremony has drained and Phil will definitely feel pretty virile for a while but he needs a good night’s sleep before he’s ready for anything more than a handsy hug.

The fire burns out in a few minutes and all that’s left is ash and their medallions. He picks them up and gently brushes the clinging ash off and back into the rest of the pile. When he gets a good look at the image he freezes, shocked.

“What’s wrong?” Clint asks.

“Alchemy,” Phil says reverently, “true alchemy.” The medallions have changed, significantly. The image is that of the last segment of an extended wing, only the center fulcrum is a stylized paw print. The whole thing is decorated with celtic knot work, Phil’s favored runic backdrop, from the feathers down to the border. That’s not the truly shocking part. The shocking part is that the medallion is no longer made of silver. The main body of it is now titanium and the image is inlaid with thin strips of obsidian. “This isn’t supposed to be possible. The ceremony is _symbolic_ alchemy, it’s about taking two separate things and combining them into something completely different, better, stronger. Two things that don’t normally combine at all.”

Clint leans over Phil’s shoulder to get a look at what’s in his hands, “It’s beautiful,” he says in a hushed tone, “how’d it happen?”

Phil shakes his head, “I don’t know, alchemy isn’t actually a true discipline, there are things that come close, but not real alchemy and usually you’re not looking to change a precious metal into a noble metal.” He longs for his research tablet, but for now he lets it go and reaches for their leather strips. He drops one medallion on, ties it in a full hitch, pulling tight and then slips it over Clint’s head. Clint, by now, having caught onto the rhythm returns the favor. It rests low on his sternum, warm and vibrant next to his skin. 

Clint seems mesmerized by the coin sized pendant on his skin. “It feels… alive.”

“It’s a representation of us,” Phil says stepping close, “four dimensionally speaking,” he draws Clint in for a soft kiss. “Come on, we need a shower.”

“Are you saying I smell?” Clint mock pouts, dragging Phil in behind him.

“Like a three day bender,” Phil says snagging the wok full of ashes before letting Clint take him inside.

“A porn bender,” Clint says proudly, “a really awesome porn bender.”

“Come on, Ron Jeremy,” Phil says.

“There’s a Ron Jeremy in your world?”

Phil sighs and closes the door to the balcony, “I’m pretty sure there’s a Ron Jeremy in every world.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much weather here. I'm expecting something back from beta soon. Editing that may slow this down a bit.

On the morning of day three they realize that Phil has no clothing, at least, until JARVIS chimes in and explains that Miss Potts has made arrangements and there’s a package waiting for them in the hallway.

“She also wishes to see you Agent Coulson.”

Phil grimaces, “Does she know?”

“It has been explained to her, yes,” JARVIS’s voice, if possible, sounds sympathetic. “She suggests breakfast.”

Clint and Phil stare at each other hesitantly, Phil actually shuffles his feet before Clint snickers and they both blush. “Yeah,” Phil says, “we’re kind of pathetic.” He lets his forehead drop down to Clint’s shoulder. “Okay, it’s a meal, I bet the rest of the avengers are probably curious about where you’ve been,” Phil pauses and frowns, “Wait, how come we haven’t been rudely interrupted yet?”

“That was me,” Clint say, stroking the skin on the back of Phil’s neck, “when I told Tasha I’d see her on the flip side, it basically meant I was going to radio silent, but for good reasons.”

Clint leaves Phil in a fluffy robe while he grabs the clothes Pepper left. They examine the selection together and Phil is mildly relieved that it’s not all suits. He doesn’t mind suits, in fact he’s very sure Clint will look amazing in something tailored and expensive but he’s learned that this world’s Phil Coulson had a signature and it was a suit. If he’s going to play the man in public, he refuses to do it in private, it’s not fair to him or anyone else.

He ends up with a pair of soft but well designed black jeans, his own leather belt with its heavy pewter buckle, a soft, medium blue v neck sweater and a leather jacket cut to resemble a suit jacket. As he slips the leather on Clint swallows a noise and comes to his side of the room in three quick strides where he proceeds to kiss Phil silly and breathless. When they part, Phil’s lips feel chapped and Clint’s hands have tucked themselves into Phil’s back pockets. The pendants, tucked safely away under their shirts, vibrate a happy tune and Phil just wants to peel Clint out of his soft looking shirt and worn jeans and get them messy all over again.

Clint sucks on Phil’s tongue and rolls their hips together languidly. “We should go,” Clint says breathlessly, “or we’re not going—”

“Yeah,” Phil murmurs huskily, nosing his way along the edge of Clint’s ear, “god I just want to,” he sucks on the shell carelessly, letting his teeth graze skin every so often.

Clint whimpers and mutters, “Fuck it,” and drops to his knees. He frees Phil’s cock which already feels confined and aching and it makes him hiss as it hits the air. Immediately, Clint sucks him down, his hand fisting at the bottom half, giving it a wicked half turn that makes Phil’s knees weak. The sex just keeps getting better, which quite frankly makes Phil worry just a little bit about his early life, but currently he’s too distracted to care much and then Clint gets creative. 

Clint has been practicing and experimenting with the various ways his and Phil’s energies can interact. At first it is just warm mental hugs, but eventually Clint figures out how to trip specific nerve endings. Last night he’d managed to undo a muscle cramp with a single perfect touch. Still, it’s a shock when there’s a firm press inside him that skirts past his prostate in a maddeningly repetitive motion. One look at Clint’s mischievous and hooded eyes and he’s done, though even has he comes in three delicious bursts, he feels the need to protest that Clint doesn’t play fair. Of course, that doesn’t stop Phil from sharing each and every pleasurable spasm with Clint who’s shocked look of ecstasy is exceptionally satisfying.

Phil tucks himself away and joins Clint on the floor and kisses him softly. “I almost regret the moratorium on bad dog jokes,” he eyes Clint’s blissed out but unrepentant face, “almost.”

It takes a few more minutes of hugging and petting but eventually Phil pulls away and asks JARVIS to direct him to Pepper. She greets him with a wide smile and suspiciously wet eyes. He hugs her because he misses his own Pepper and he relearns her sense profile happily. 

It takes a few rounds of very good tea, an amazing omelet and some vaguely prying questions about his life and a subtle question about his living arrangements, “Agent Barton and I are happy to share while I acclimate,” before Pepper finally comes down to her main topic of conversation.

“Work,” she says eventually.

“Work?”

Pepper smiles gently, “I know they’ve… resurrected Phil for you,” she says carefully, “and with that you’ve gained access to his bank accounts, which have actually been stuck in probate for the last 6 months for some reason, his pension, health insurance, social security number, property, stocks, everything. I’ve had my personal lawyer make sure of that so you’re not stuck doing something you don’t want to do.”

Phil’s face softens, he puts his cup down and takes her hand in his, “Pepper, no one’s making me do anything.”

She squeezes his hand, but doesn’t let go, her face is too kind and her smile too gentle and her eyes just a shade too tired, “I just want to be sure, but then I thought that maybe— I also wanted to offer you a job, consider it a counter off for SHIELD. I want you to have income, so that you’re not stuck in a position of having to spend a dead man’s money.”

Phil’s heart flips and in his head Clint goes whip sharp, Phil sooths him while continuing to blink, pole-axed at his dining companion. He licks his suddenly dry lips, “Pepper, that is,” he clears his throat of emotion, “that is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

Pepper chokes back a sob, “Then I’m glad I could meet you.”

He holds her while she cries, it’s a delicate and controlled sobbing, but he can smell the quiet happiness that her friend is alive in some form. They’re finishing up, Pepper is promising him a very large packet of files when Clint’s presence goes angry and betrayed. He excuses himself and has JARVIS deliver him to wherever Clint is. He reaches what looks like a communal gym, before he enters he pings Clint and he gets back anguish, sadness and acceptance. He’s not hurt, but he’s not happy either.

Phil gives Clint a heads up and opens the door. Inside looks like some sort of intervention, Clint against Natasha, Stark, Steve and Bruce, though Bruce looks like he wishes he was anywhere else, Phil’s hackles go up, hard. “So, is everyone playing nice?”

Clint’s eyes flick to him and he can feel the relief at no longer being alone. 

“Look,” Steve starts, “I think this got out of hand.”

“You think so?” Clint is pissed and not afraid to show it. “Hard not to when everyone jumps to conclusions.”

Phil scans the room and sees some weight lifting equipment, spies the weight and sighs. He has a good idea of what happened. “Okay, I’m just going to lay it out there and say that nothing that’s happened in the last few days, other than my forced universe jump, was against anyone’s explicit consent. I’m going to further say that if you insist on assuming that Clint somehow doesn’t know his own mind, then you do a disservice not only to him, but your friendship.” Phil watches Steve flinch, score one. Bruce is just nodding along, ah, score two.

“Now, can someone explain to me why I walked in here to find Clint being cornered by his friends?” Phil puts a little authority into it, just to see if he can get them to back down by reflex. It seems to work because Stark and Natasha relax their poses while Steve fights to keep from falling into an at ease position. “Also, where’s Thor?”

“He hasn’t come down yet,” Bruce volunteers, “this was impromptu, also, poorly thought out.”

Bruce is Phil’s new favorite person. Phil breathes out heavily, making it into an annoyed huff. “Okay, let’s have it, list of grievances.”

The four of them are silent.

“Well?”

Clint walks to his side, hands clenched tightly. “They’re worried you used my grief for this world’s Phil Coulson to manipulate me into, something, we hadn’t gotten to that part,” he crosses his arms, “or they hadn’t figured it out yet. I don’t know.”

“Actually,” Stark says, finally, “ _I_ was worried that Fury would use your grief for Phil Coulson to manipulate you into making this one want to stay. There’s also your recently improved skills, which figure in somehow, I just haven’t worked it out yet.”

Phil is unimpressed, but at least that’s a little more respectful of Clint and slightly more likely. “We were going to tell you, you know. There was just a timing issue involved.”

Steve finally stands down by taking a seat on the nearest piece of equipment, that appears to be the signal for everyone else. Natasha remains silent and reserved and Clint’s worry about that is foremost on his mind. Phil sends out a gentle caress and gets back the mental equivalent of a shy smile.

“So,” Natasha eventually says, “explain it to us.”

“I haven’t lied to you,” Phil says, “I just let you assume some things.” So he explains, first about Weres and then about the bonds Weres need to survive. He explains about his first minutes in this world, the loneliness that overwhelmed him and the pain, the fear. He explains how he had no intention of doing anything about it, hadn’t even gotten to the idea of finding a way to explain it when Clint had appeared and how his instincts had acted before he could reign them in and how when they had connected it had been the first peaceful moment he’d had in years. “Honestly, it was probably a matter of time before I ran across someone I missed enough that my instincts would overpower my brain and latch on, as a survival mechanism if nothing else. It’s not unheard of in my world, but I admit that I was afraid to reveal my Were status without any intel on this world.”

“And Clint?” Natasha asks.

“It was an accident,” Clint says, “at first.”

“I was completely cut off,” Phil goes on, “I think that’s why it was so uncontrolled,” he tells them about how he’d mistaken what happened as a friendship bond or a light familial bond, “but what I didn’t realize was that my instincts would grab on as hard as possible and normally, that’s not a big deal, what actually happened was,” his words dry up. He can’t articulate it because it’s still so new and precious and amazing.

“Connection,” Clint picks up, “instant connection, a one in a million match up, from what I can tell. It was— Tasha,” he turns to face her full, clasping his hands together, “Tasha it was home.”

“And the rest?” She’s slowly thawing.

Phil takes back over. “Once it started, we had to finish it one way or another or it’d get dangerous. The only way to complete it is to do an energy exchange, if that happens between a Were and a Non Were, there’s a transformation. It was already starting by the time you were called out on that mission. You all saw it. In fact I’m pretty sure that’s what got all of us to this place and impromptu interrogation.”

Stark demands they be put through their paces and he and Clint get to show off for a solid three hours. It’s fun and he makes an effort to answer the questions that are thrown at him even as he ducks Natasha’s punches, eventually they all relax again.

“Out of curiously,” Phil asks, wiping his brow with a towel, “How did you explain away my abilities before?”

“The jacket,” Natasha says, “I assumed something similar to whatever your jacket did.”

Phil nods, fair assumption. The group of them stumbles to the locker room, unisex, and he pauses slightly before taking off his borrowed, sweat soaked t-shirt. When he’d changed, the rest of them had already been wearing their exercise gear so only Clint had been there and while Clint’s eyes always spend time tracing his lines, he at least knows they’re there, but it’s become very apparent that he needs to try and be more open with these people. So he takes his shirt of.

“Woah,” Stark says, he’s the first one to see, of course he is, he’s probably got as much covert surveillance on Phil as he can manage.

“Well,” Phil says, tracing the swirling patterns of dark ink and scars on his abdomen, “you weren’t all wrong about the protection magics.”

“That reminds me,” Stark picks up a tablet that was apparently waiting in his locker, “I’ve got some sketches for you, but we should talk about your preferences in weapons and armor.”

Phil’s eyebrows raise but he takes the tablet and looks through the images, “So you did this in between suspecting everyone’s motives?”

“I’m a multitasking sort of guy, get with the rhythm.” Tony claps him on the shoulder. “Speaking of,” he switches the screens and on it is an employment contract, “ _Now_ I’m worried about Fury using you for your super special powers, how long do you think it will be before he starts asking you to turn people?”

Phil’s almost touched, “You do know Pepper gave me the same offer this morning?”

“Yep,” Stark nods, popping the final p. “Honestly, I wasn’t too worried, I saw you make cow at each other and I’ve been the recipient of more fake cow eyes than you could imagine, whatever you were keeping from us, it wasn’t to hurt Clint.”

Thor joins them for lunch and Phil makes an effort to purposely catch him up on the proceedings. There is a knowing look in his eye and Phil wonders if he can naturally see and feel some of the things Phil has artificially amended his body to see and feel. The seven of them get into a serious conversation about tactics and the ideal way to split the team up for various situations. It’s actually a little soothing in terms of familiarity, even if he occasionally has to stop them to expound on what he and Clint can and cannot do in any given situation.

“I also need to do some research,” Phil says, “look around, see what materials are available and then find some private area in a forest, walk a circle and just try things out,” Phil says, amused by the instant delight Clint feels at the idea.

“That reminds me,” Stark says, “can you duplicate what you did to your coat onto say, body armor? I mean, imagine it, it’s already pretty indestructible but if we add—”

“I’m not a clothier,” Phil interrupts, “I know the basic theory, but my leather coat and pants were made for me by someone who apprenticed for years before she could be called a Master Clothes Maker.” Phil is surprised that everyone sort of wilts at that news, even Natasha. “I’ll see what’s possible, after that we can talk.”

“Agent Coulson?” JARVIS calls.

“Yes?”

“You are receiving a call from SHIELD through the main tower line, shall I put it through?”

Stark’s face goes slack and he hits his head, pulls out a thin plastic sheet like device and hands it over to Phil. “Forgot this.”

It’s a phone, that’s impressive even for his universe. “I guess I’ll take it on this JARVIS.”

The call is from Agent Sitwell, he wants to come over and do the debriefing with him and Clint and also maybe bring along a few friends. He knows what this is supposed to be and from the looks around the table, they know too. He thinks about it and knows that Fury’s going to be mad about not being consulted but he just can’t do that to these people. Not to his friends, not to people who cried at this man’s funeral. “Yeah, come over, Stark’s got a private conference room we can borrow.” Stark nods even as he’s saying it.

Clint asks if he can be there, in a quiet and serious voice that makes Phil want to wrap him up in the warmest hug he can manage. Phil holds back the physical urges, aware they are not alone in the room, the rest of the Avengers are still there, hanging back and talking quietly, and does the mental equivalent of brushing Clint’s cheek. Clint just lets him know he never has to do anything alone.

When he starts to explain, Sitwell, Melinda and Hill all get it at the same time and their faces fall and the room goes quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Phil says to them, “I wish it was different, I wish I hadn’t given you false hope, I wish…” he stops, there’s no words that can make this better, so he just stops.

“He’s a good man,” Clint says into the void, “he is Phil Coulson in all the ways that matter. He’d do the same things that our Coulson did to earn your respect, your friendship.”

“Your love,” Melinda says, eyes hard. “Clint are you—”

“Yes,” Clint says forcefully, “very.”

Hill speaks up, “It’s just that this is the basic script for almost every infiltration scenario known to man.”

Sitwell next, “You can see why we’d be concerned.”

Phil sighs, it’s impressive how they did that without any prior knowledge. If he didn’t know this universe better, he’d suspect telepathy. “Let me tell you a story,” Phil says instead of swearing his love or loyalty or fealty, these people know better than to trust mere words anyway, “Once upon a time, there was a girl, left alone by the ravages of time and disease, her family was dead, her friends too far away to help. It was a cold and bitter winter and all she had were the meager savings of food her family had managed before they perished, a small stack of silver coins and her slowly burgeoning craft.”

“Craft?” Sitwell asks.

“Witchcraft,” Phil says, “Now, where I come from, there are many versions of this story, many different scenarios, stories of trials and efforts that happen, that fail and sometimes that even succeed. Sometimes she keeps the fire going through sheer will, sometimes she manages to change rock into bread and honey, sometimes she calls vegetables straight from the frozen ground. However, in all the versions of this story, one thing remains the same.”

“She was lonely. She was utterly alone. And with each day, each hour, she died a little inside. Until one day she awoke to a howl. It was a howl that every child learns at the feet of their parents, it’s a lesson of survival, that howl means a wolf and in the lean times, when the winter has settled and the ground has frozen and every thing that resembled life was asleep or perished, it was the most dangerous howl in the world.”

“For four weeks, she listened and as she died a little inside from sorrow and grief, she felt a slowly growing kinship with this howl. Until one day, she howled back. It was easy to put all of her sadness and fatigue, her loneliness, into that howl because that was all she had left. Much to her shock the howl answered. For three days they ‘spoke’ to one another, with each response the howl moved just a little bit closer.”

“Eventually, she could see four paws shadowed under the door. At that point, she had a choice, to ignore the animal and hope it would lose interest, or to take a leap of faith and hope that maybe together they could get out of the winter alive. Eventually, she opened the door and found a large, white wolf with sad eyes. She also found something else, companionship. An instant connection that changed her, that changed both of them. She gifted the wolf with a one of the silver coins left to her, she carved his name and a hole for the leather thong which she would use to tie it around the wolf’s neck. Together, they made it through the winter and they were never alone again. That is the story of how the first werewolves were born.”

“Werewolves.” Hill said flatly.

“Yes,” Phil nods, “That’s how I was able to keep up with the Avengers.”

The three of them stare at Phil until Melinda’s eyes go infinitesimally wider. “Barton. Was your wolf?”

“Actually,” Clint says with a smile, “I think in this case, I’m the lonely girl.” He winks but Phil can feel the pain the words echo.

Phil nods. “Essentially correct, while he wasn’t the first person I saw, he was the one who fulfilled the minimum requirements, after that it was mostly out of my, our, hands.” He pauses, “My people die without connection,” Clint washes over him warmly, “but I never would have initiated something without a long conversation and complete consent if I hadn’t been actively out of my own mind. Pining does… terrible things to my kind.”

The three agents are harder edged than the Avengers and while Natasha will take Clint’s word easily enough, these three have just been told their friend is dead all over again. 

“I said yes,” Clint speaks, low and rough, “there was a question that was asked and I answered it, did it happen quickly? Yes. Did I answer without thinking? Yes. But hey, I’m the guy that jumps off buildings for a living, quick decisions are my thing. So the suspicious looks can stop now.”

As the three agents think it over, Phil redoubles his feelings about letting anyone know the extent of their mental connection. This world is suspicious, and rightly so, already and Clint’s previous encounters with mind altering external forces is a sore subject for more than just Clint. 

Eventually, Hill takes out a series of forms. “As much as the Director would like to pretend, his word does not actually move mountains, nor fill out paperwork.” 

Thus the process of truly bringing Phil Coulson back to life begins.

He and Clint spend time going over the remnants of a man’s life. It’s difficult for both of them. Slowly they go through accounts and bank statements, they change passwords, verbal and typed, they fill out change of address forms, call and activate 5 separate types of banking cards and view what seems like thousands of bits of paper.

Then Clint carefully slides one last pile over to him. Phil reads them carefully and then signs them easily enough. These forms only put to ink what he and Clint have essentially promised and bound themselves to not 12 hours earlier. Now they legally may speak for each other when they cannot speak for themselves.

“I thought about just asking you to marry me, officially” Clint says nonchalantly, though a small pang of longing slips through the cracks and pokes at Phil, “but six months of being an Avenger have taught me a thing or two about celebrity status and I thought maybe, we should wait on that, maybe see how it plays out.”

Phil takes Clint’s hand and squeezes it, carefully sending the quiet happiness any action that further ties them together provokes in him. “Whenever you’re ready.” Phil is also not unfamiliar with the issues of celebrity, the Stark of his world had caused plenty of headaches and not all of them truly his own fault, the celebrity machine is heavy handed at times. Very heavy.

The week that follows is almost excruciatingly busy. There are meetings with Fury about his alternate time line, followed almost directly by meetings with Steve Rodgers where he asks painfully careful questions about his version of Bucky Barnes. Then there are meetings with both SHIELD RnD and Stark Labs where he talks about weapon and clothing preferences, there are conversations with Sitwell, Hill and Melinda to fill him in on things Phil Coulson should know and then there are the most disturbing meetings. Those in which he meets with his personal PR attendant. He has opinions about everything from his uniform design, “It’s hard to trademark all black without something unique,” to how to handle the press, “Maybe try three word answers this time?”, to crafting and perfecting his own personal back story, “We should focus on the Lone angle.” Until finally Phil just walks out of the room.

Clint greets him right outside with a wry, “You lasted longer than I did the first time.” It’s only slightly soothing.

The other problem is that Phil’s schedule is so packed, there’s little or no time for he and Clint to just be alone, unless it’s at the end of the day when he drags himself back to their apartment and collapses into bed where Clint proceeds to wrap himself around Phil and hold him tightly. 

Eventually there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, Fury’s curiosity is sated for now and his meetings drop off the radar, the same with RnD and Stark is more than happy to just send him files and wait for his comments during communal meals. A few days in Stark presents him with a staff, about the same size as his original one sitting cracked and broken in the back of his now shared closet.

“I thought you should have something for close combat,” Stark says rapidly, “you seemed pretty good using the bow as a staff, so I threw something together.”

Phil’s takes the weapon numbly, wrapping his fingers around it feels a little like betrayal. The staff is well balanced and as beautiful as it is functional. Apparently his secondary color is now blue, a decision he’d been presented with a few days ago, and the staff highlights this in long sweeping swirls that look inspired by his own skin markings. Stark shows him how it’s variable in length. Currently it is fully extended, but it collapses to 1/3rd the length so it can be slipped easily into his quiver or even into a specialized holster on his belt. It’s apparently made of the strongest materials Stark can get his hands on and it contains a battery that recharges with movement that can act as the power source for a cattle prod style set of leads at the top. It takes but a few practice swings and twirls to know that it’s weighted perfectly. He looks up to thank Stark to find that he’s already walked away.

That’s fine because Phil isn’t sure he has the words anyway.

The tentacle obsessed scientist strikes again at the end of the week, only this time it’s over sized jellyfish and they sting. There’s been time to practice with the more advanced setup so both Clint and Phil get the variable headed arrows, which is good because electricity turns out to be one of the easiest ways to temporarily disable them. The battle is long, but not exceptionally complicated, the hardest parts involve finding the right time to send the explosives so that they cause minimal damage. The problem with the location, though it doesn’t filter into Phil’s consciousness beyond ‘people who shouldn’t be there’ until later are civilians. With their phones. The first images of the new Avenger are posted within minutes and the live media coverages picks up on it minutes later.

By the time he and Clint are policing their arrows, trying to find some quiet time amidst the chaos, the media frenzy has begun. Later he finds out that his press release was sent out the moment the media made note of his appearance. That’s why when he walks the gauntlet to their transportation they are beyond asking who he is. Instead they are already dissecting the few words of history they have been presented with. It is shockingly dehumanizing. Next to him, Clint is stiff, in posture and lip, and while he does not come too close, he swirls around Phil’s head worried and scared.

Phil says nothing, simply because he cannot connect this furor, this cacophonous noise, with himself. Thankfully, the media has learned their lesson early, about shoving microphones into the faces of people who have just spent a prolonged amount of time shooting at things. The law suit had been laughed out of court. By the time they are back at the tower and changed, the media has taken their own spin on his tight lipped walk and have decided that his moniker, yes their word, seems well earned. Lone Wolf indeed. He spends some time listening to the talking heads dissect his new uniform, the compare/contrast to Clint’s is amusing and their conclusions based on ridiculous things like the number of stitches they can see on the stylized claw marks woven into the fabric of the front panel are far fetched. It’s an absurd example of seeing symbolism where there isn’t. 

It takes a long time to feel settled into his own skin, Clint helps by stripping him down and then tracing his fingers along each ridge and curve they can find until finally he slides into Phil, slick and easy and takes long languid thrusts to a new level. Phil spends a lot of time gasping breathless into Clint’s shoulder until finally he crests with a wave of shared emotion and pleasure. Clint cradles him like a precious gem while he shakes, sharing in the long waves of sensation rippling through him, them. Finally, they wrap themselves up in each other and hold on tightly.

He still feels skittish in the morning, partially because every news outlet is still getting their two cents in. There’s a message from his PR guy telling him there’s already a list of interview requests and he can’t even process that so he just stores the message to deal with later. He ducks them for two days, building his schedule back up to ungodly busy and Clint, bless him, helps him stay that way instead of holing them up someplace private like they both ache for.

Eventually, Stark finds him. 

“When I was a kid,” Stark says, “all I did was be myself.”

Phil doesn’t look up from his very important reading material, but his eyes stops scanning the words.

“And it was weird for me, because being myself was apparently noteworthy.” Stark sits down next to him and takes a single finger and pushes the tablet in Phil’s hands down. “I wasn’t even trying, you know, I just… built things and solved problems and then everyone around me would go a little crazy.”

Phil clenches his hands.

“It’s hard to take a bow for something you don’t think is hard, for something you’d do anyway.”

Phil swallows. “I’m not the extraordinary guy. I don’t walk into a room and become the center of it. That’s not who I am.”

“But you could have been,” Stark says quietly, “you were, sometimes, when you needed to be. The Phil Coulson of this world was great at blending in yes, but when he needed to command the attention of well, quit frankly, me, he could do it.”

Phil laughs quietly, just a huff of air forced out of his nose. “I do my job.”

“We all do,” Stark says, “Coulson, Phil, a man who I have been assured is _just like you_ walked into a room with a god. He walked into a room with a god because he knew that’s what had to happen. You are extraordinary because you have those same—”

“I was hoping to die.” He’s never said it aloud before and even now it’s all but a whisper.

“Me too.”

“When?” Phil blurts out.

“Now and then,” Stark shrugs, “I was dying at one point, made that thought easier sometimes too.” He reaches out to touch Phil, a hand on his forearm, squeezing gently. “We few, we scarred few, the band of PTSD brothers and sister.” Stark pauses. “You did have Shakespeare right?”

“Yeah, we did,” Phil says, “shockingly from what I can remember, the plays are the same.”

“Good,” Stark nods, “it’s always sad when no one understands my mangled quotes.”

They sit there in silence, it’s comfortable, even if they’ve both peeled away layers of themselves that they almost never do in front of other people.

Stark eventually sighs. “No one will ever convince you that you deserve recognition, that you do amazing things and not just necessary things until you can see those actions as impressive yourself. I built myself an ego because I needed it, I needed that sense of proportion, though I admit, I may have built it too well, just like everything else I do.”

Phil snorts into shocked laughter.

“There it is,” Stark smiles, “Clint told me you could smile.”

Clint, like always, is right there, hovering nearby and more often than not in recent days, ready to shore him up or to simply hold him. “Did he send you?”

“Only a little,” Stark admits, “we’ve all noticed how well you weren’t dealing with the attention.”

Phil flushes. “It’s hard.”

“It’s like it isn’t even you.”

Phil winces, Stark probably knows everything he’s going to say.

“It isn’t,” he goes on, “that person they’re talking about, it’s not you, it’s the pieces of you they can see and the pieces you let them know about, the rest they extrapolate and sometimes they get really close, but mostly they’ll never have you.”

Somehow, that makes it easier and something tight and aching inside him eases, just a little. It’s like any other undercover op, just a bit closer to the line, he can do that. “So you’re saying I should do the interview?”

Stark waffles. “Well, probably? We can redo the plan, make it your thing to avoid questions, but it’ll take a long while for the roving bands of wild photographers to die down that way.” He taps something on his phone and a document comes up on Phil’s tablet. “She’s a softball,” he points to the name up top, “she likes us and has never attempted to ambush us, or me before there was an us, she does her research and can keep it going when you’re having trouble finding words. Natasha liked her.”

The last one is a serious positive point in the recommendation. It’s still hard to agree to it, even in a hypothetical way, something about saying yes feels like a step into a world that he doesn’t belong to. He wonders if Natasha fights her own instincts to be photographed with her real name, if Clint spends hours of anxious time debating how much of himself to put on display, to make a target. The brush of Clint’s anxiety against his mind tells him that Clint still worries, but Phil can’t help feeling a little proud that Clint is constantly willing to share his worries with him, to sooth him with the idea that he’s not alone.

Stark leaves him with one final thought. “Pepper thinks you’re awesome, who are you to argue with her?”

Who is he, indeed?


End file.
